Magic Stick
by Curiously Strong
Summary: Lt. Underpants is dead. Welcome to Over There After Underpants. Amidst growing civil unrest, how will everyone's favorite fire team get along with their new, FEMALE Lieutenant? How DID she land the job? Is she who she says she is? Feedback welcome y'all!
1. Daglesh Square

Hey y'all. I've got a hairline fracture in my right ankle and daytime TV still sucks so here's some more Over There FanFiction.

This is not a continuation of my Sgt. Hotness Scream trilogy however, I'll be using some characters from those stories because I like them and because I can and like I have to give you an explanation, child _please_. In lieu of a synopsis, Lt. Underpants is dead. Welcome to Over There A. U. or After Underpants. Other than that, I don't really know where I'm going with this except in the very broadest of senses so hold on to your edible panties!

**_Daglesh_**: a black dot. In Hebrew calligraphy it is used to change the pronounceable emphasis of a word.

* * *

Taking the blame for the Iraqi Police's snafu that left a third of Mosul in the dark a month earlier was proving to be a costly good deed for the _Tarateers_. The new nickname, which according to an informal poll of U.S. Army interpreters amounted to _One Full of Farts_, was an improvement on the earlier _Ulooj _or _Pigs of the Desert_ for those who were into its translated form. At first, letting the fledgling security forces retain their credibility with the skeptical population they served had seemed like a good idea but as word that free food was being handed out to anyone who showed up started to spread, the population of every affected neighborhood increased exponentially. Not even bunnies were that fertile.

Twenty minutes after the Iraqi Police took over their new headquarters, a toaster had finally overloaded a grid designed to service a population the size of South Central Los Angeles and landed a quarter of a million people in 1365 A.D. A month later Mother Army was still feeding the last three percent of those affected in tiny neighborhoods like Amali and al-Bareed, not yet realizing that so long trucks full of food kept showing up, people willing to take it would always be at hand.

This was Pfc. Esmeralda Del Rio's new job, food distribution, and she was starting to feel like Wal-Mart associate after eleven days of feeding the denizens of **_Daglesh_** Square, al-Bareed. Five trucks were parked at the intersection of Road 52 and Avenue B, formerly Saddam Hussein Road and Saddam Hussein Avenue, not that the incarcerated dictator was overcompensating for anything. Pvt. Mitchell was helping her by checking identifications before the food was handed out and punching a hole in the ration cards instated a week earlier to cut down on the repeats. Both the women's ears were ringing after two hours of the incessant noise coming from the mostly female crowd.

One truck over, Pfc. Simpson was similarly engaged with his right hand in a splint having recently learnt why punching men wearing body armor was never a smart thing to do. He'd not only hurt his hand but gained extra duty and lost some of his measly pay and all for a blow that had failed to even budge the man who cut in line in front of him on spaghetti and meatballs day.

The line before his truck was the shortest of all the queues and he looked up with hope in his eyes, wondering if he was going to make it back to base for the second episode of _King of the Hill_. It was unlikely. No matter how quickly his partner in monotony managed his hole-puncher or how fast the food went out of its boxes, he always had to wait for a ration card.

"Ration card ma'am," he urged dully holding a sample card in the air. The black robe in front of him looked up.

"No I'm..."

"No card," he said pointing to the card and shaking an MRE, "no food." The woman handed Simpson a folded sheet of paper. Baffled by the simplicity of the unexpected he repeated his directions. "No card, no food."

"I'm not here for food," she said.

"Then move to the back of my line ma'am," Simpson added without noticing he'd just replied to a statement made in perfectly understandable English. He waved her away.

"Your commander promised medicine would come for me." She unfolded the sheet of paper and waved it in the air without budging from her spot in line. People from the adjacent queues gathered around Simpson for the entertainment value of what seemed to be brewing. Most of them didn't have the benefit of Hank Hill on satellite TV.

"Ma'am I only have food."

"Your commander promised. Look." Simpson took the paper and stared cross eyed at fuzzy black print. $1,700 a month was not enough pay.

"Ma'am I only have food," he repeated. Beside him Esmeralda cursed in Spanish, something about the size of Simpson's genitals.

"_Dios mio_, just ask Sergeant Scream!"

"Hey nobody asked you!"

"So then Arabic is the official language of Watts?" Simpson looked at Pfc. Del Rio and it dawned on him that he'd been conducting a conversation in his mother tongue. He brought his radio to his mouth.

"Sarge come in," He did. "I've got a woman here, says she needs medical attention."

"Medication," she corrected.

"That's what I said." Simpson returned his radio to his vest where it belonged. The woman shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked up at the sun hanging steadfast in a cloudless sky. Sensing a more receptive audience in Pfc. Del Rio, she sought the woman's eyes.

"Could you look in your truck please? There should be ten boxes from the Red Cross with this name," she held out laminated ID badge with her name and photo. Esmeralda took the badge and looked at the inventoried contents of her truck as listed in her clipboard. There was no medication in there; she had loaded the truck herself. SSgt. Silas negotiating the haphazard line eliminated the need to respond.

"Who's sick here?" He asked Del Rio.

"SSgt. Silas?"

"Jam… Mrs. Al-Shahrani?" She recovered before he did and the blush in her cheeks intensified though the impossible afternoon heat had put it there first.

"Is there a problem?"

"I'm awaiting remittance of medical supplies from the International Red Cross Sergeant. A Captain… Baron," she said checking the name in her fax and emphasizing the wrong syllable of The Duke's given name "told my boss they'd be shipped with the food today." Without needing to be told, Del Rio placed her clipboard on Silas's outstretched hand. Simpson followed suit. The remaining three trucks didn't need to be checked; items six though sixteen of Pfc. Simpson's load were clearly marked as Red Cross parcels for the newly minted al-Bareed Women's Health Centre.

"Ten boxes ma'am. Does that sound about right?"

"Yes Sergeant."

"My people will deliver these as soon as they are done with the food ma'am."

"_Shukran_ Sergeant, thank you." Jamila refolded her fax as small as she could bend the paper. One of her hands disappeared into her purse. "Sergeant, perhaps you or one of your colleagues could spare a moment to deliver some of the lighter supplies now? We need… everything. You have the address right?"

"I'll see what I can do ma'am."

* * *

In case you already lost count, that was chapter one.

Thy Author.

PS: Thank you Bianca.


	2. East Meets West

Here is Chapter 2 edited to fit a T rating down fromthe M rating I personally like way more. Turns out the watered down version of Chapt. #2 is pretty shortbut I thought I'd include it anyway. Theoriginal version where the consenting adults have sex is available as a stand alone story titled '**_101 Uses for Kneepads_**.' It is rated M so to access it, you must either select all the stories Rated M in the 'Over There' fic front page or the similar Fiction Rating: All.

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

* * *

Jamila was sitting on a stack of soda-pop crates eating a green apple when the garden doors were pushed open from the sidewalk. She had seen the camouflaged crowns of helmeted heads bobbing above the tall security wall along with the other clinic employee, Raziya, who preferred to do her spying from the safety of the window. The 15 year old was a second wife and a mother of two but 15 nonetheless. She joined Jamila in the porch as the men came in. Her curiosity went unsatisfied

"_Yalla! Ruuh ishtira chaay_," Jamila ordered giving the girl enough money for a month's worth of tea. "_Yalla_." There was a brief moment of conflict on Raziya's face but she chose the sudden windfall over whatever unknown could be learned from the American's visit and disappeared with visible joy in her step. Jamila recognized Sgt. Murphy behind three of the wooden crates marked with Red Cross insignia as she opened the clinic door for the men. They lined up the boxes just inside the room.

"I was about to give up on you Sergeant," she said to their backs. Murphy had Silas' attention, tapped his radio to remind him of their pre-arranged signal and gave him a knowing smile before he stepped back out into the porch.

"I went by your house earlier but I didn't see your goat. I thought maybe you moved."

"No." She hauled one of the heavy boxes to an examination table and worked at the nailed lid with claws of an old carpenter's hammer. "I ate it."

"You ate Lexus?"

"You named my goat?"

"He was cute. He had a spot on his butt like an 'L,' kinda made him look like a car."

Jamila finished logging the contents of the first box in a lined composition notebook. Silas took off his helmet. They were bad theater sans ridiculous plots, slamming doors or any of the other deliberate absurdity of a farce. Her pencil moving right to left on a sheet of paper was the loudest sound in the room for a whole minute.

"I never know what to say to you," she said at last.

"Then we are a matched set." He popped the lid on a second box glad to have something to do.

"My last name isn't Al-Shahrani." She produced the laminated ID she had shown Del Rio earlier. "Muslim women don't take their husband's last name. Jamila Haddad, see?"

"Midwife?"

"Well it should say assistant in the bottom. I'm still learning. Did you know umbilical cords should stop pulsing before you cut them? It can go on for an hour and I helped at a birth last week where the placenta was almost as big as the baby. It's so… spongy. I haven't been able to eat meat since." She stopped after a glimpse of Silas' crinkled nose and laughed nervously. "More than you wanted to know?"

"A little."

"Your friend outside," she asked looking at the back of Murphy's body armor before she closed the curtain "do you trust him?"

"Yes."

"Good." Jamila smiled. She unfastened the pins keeping her headscarf in place and began rolling off the long stretch-lycra gloves that covered her arms to the elbows. Chris took her hands in his.

"I don't want you to think I only come here…"

"To get into my panties?" She interrupted. Chris surprised himself by replying in kind.

"Be fair darling girl." He bent down to kiss her and told himself, briefly even believing it, that nothing else would happen. "You don't wear any." Jamila pulled the neckline of her **_abaya_** away from her body, peered down and spoke in mock shock.

"Why Sergeant, I think you are right!" She took off his ICOM headset before he had a chance to protest and started on the impossibly powerful Velcro lapels of his body armor.

"No. Jamila. I'm dirty. I don't have a condom. I'm pretty sure I stink." He listed the reasons without conviction more for his own benefit than anything else.

"Sergeant," she said finally freeing him of the twenty pound vest, "shut _up_." It took every reserve of his common sense to stop her hands on the buttons of his jacket.

"I can't turn off responsibility Jamila." She smiled; amused by the tangible sorrow in his face as he spoke, like basic human decency was a burden he'd grown accustomed to shouldering.

"Staff Sergeant Christopher Silas," she said working her way down the five button shirtfront, "the East was teaching the West how not to get their women pregnant while you were all still trying to figure out the alphabet." Her hands rested on the buckle of his belt waiting for him. "Do you think maybe we can get naked now?"

* * *

As per an automated word count, 722 words of the previous chapter were not minor friendly.

Thy Author and Her Editor


	3. The Replacement

Are you familiar with the term suspension of disbelief? As per Wikipedia, it's is a reader's willingness to ignore minor inconsistencies to enjoy a work of fiction. I'm introducing Hunter's replacement in this chapter, get some ropeand hang the mo fo.

* * *

From the spot he had picked for his three minute mid-afternoon breather, Captain James Baron could just make out what was left of the memorial erected in Lt. Hunter's honor after his death two weeks prior. He hadn't been able to catch whoever kept peeing on the sandbags propping up Hunter's boots and he wanted to. He was too much of a soldier to condone such blatant disrespect, personal feelings about the deceased aside. Halting the anonymous pisser was high in his to-do list but Hunter's death had lengthened it considerably. Captain Baron had been quick to discover Hunter's gift for alienating people invaluable in keeping their pettier problems at bay. Now, with a broken chain of command, each passing minute found him longing for a cattle prod or a whip.

He eyeballed the assorted paperwork piling up on his desk and the tab on one of the files there: First Lieutenant Kai Benally. It'd been left for him the night before with the news that Hunter's long awaited replacement was en-route from Saddam's hometown of Tikrit along with a large tub of industrial strength air freshener for the latrines. It was this very name from his XO's mouth that brought him out of his reverie. Reinforcements were in!

"Lieutenant Kai Benally, sir!"

"At ease," Baron ordered. Boots scuffed wood as the lieutenant complied, placing a copy of his orders before his new Captain. He looked over the letter sized printout, giddy with anticipation at the prospect of unloading the Filipino cook and the memorial pisser and every other trivial matter upping his daily consumption of Mylanta to a bottle and a half then appraised the new addition.

Benally sported a short patchy haircut –proof that hair cutting shouldn't be outsourced to third country nationals no matter how much money the practice saved, dark skin, prominent cheekbones and pupils lost in the dark irises of almond shaped eyes slighted slanted inward towards a small rounded nose. If pressed for a guess he might say Navajo and though there was no feathered headdress in sight he could bet she hadn't paid taxes a day in her life. _Her_ life? Baron reached for the file he'd only had a chance to skim for ten seconds before reveille, before coffee, before _breakfast_ and there was no denying it. Lt. Kai Benally did not have a penis, no need to check. F for female had been marked by every question inquiring after gender.

"You are a woman," he declared dumbly.

"Yes sir," her decidedly female voice agreed suppressing a chuckle.

Baron thumbed through the pages on the Lieutenant's file reading carefully at facts he'd only just absorbed a minute earlier when Monday was still behaving like a normal day.

"_The officers and men of your Company who served under my command in this area the past month have conducted a series of most difficult operations with excellent results, and I wish to commend them for the splendid work that they have conducted. A spirit of willingness and enthusiasm to tackle most difficult assignments marked their duties throughout_…" His voice trailed off as he continued reading the text of a two star General's commendation just under his breath.

"West Point graduate, position with psych ops." Baron continued to himself _'multiple language proficiency, made 1st lieutenant in record time_.' He flipped through the last of the documentation and raised an eyebrow at a commendation by the same General where Kai Benally was one of three singularly named. He put the whole file aside and sighed. The cosmos had aligned.

"Any idea how you came to be the new platoon lieutenant in an infantry unit ma'am?"

"I was wondering about that myself, sir. Must have been a clerical error."

"That must be it." Baron reclined his chair. "I take it you are not at all inconvenienced then ma'am. This," he patted her file "reads like you got lost on the way to say… Colonel Ryan's outfit. Was that the case here?"

"I only know my orders Captain."

"You know Lieutenant, your papers are in order, you are no more or less qualified for this position than the man you are replacing and I think the gender policy is shit so I'm going to inform the powers that be that they screwed the pooch and as far as I'm concerned you got the job for however long it takes them to come looking for you."

"Thank you sir," she said.

"Hold that thought ma'am because your first task of the day is getting it through to the cook that she can't scratch her ass and serve my food without a very long and thorough trip to the restroom to wash her hands in between. And that goes for scratching anything else on her. Have fun. She's only speaks Tagalog."

"Yes sir."

"Welcome to my week Lieutenant."

* * *

Ta da! I'm still hoping us writers of FanFiction band together and devise a standard Hunter Replacement. It's my fantasy world okay? In this parallel universe I walk around in a silk kimono and Belgian chocolate is not prohibitively expensive so no boring rules apply. Meanwhile, I'll have a lot of time in my hands for the next six weeks and I wanted to have fun with the role. If after taking all these facts into consideration you still wish to tell me there's not enough disbelief to suspend to that a female platoon lieutenant in this particular scenario is a believable role, just know that I'll cover my ears and shout the lyrics to "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye" until I'm blue in the face.

Thy Author


	4. Picking Sides

Side note: This story _is_ named after the incredibly obscene song by 50 Cent and Lil' Kim. I thought all the phallic references in it were sort of relevant to the theme of the weaker sex being in charge. And no I don't think women are the weaker sex, hell, ask my husband. Tehehe.

* * *

"…you know Bina is mine Captain that was part of the agreement. I handed over my tapes of the dead Iraqis and held off my investigation into the needless, tragic deaths of five Americans because your commander promised me an exclusive on Bina and every operation being planned in that regard and now CNN is sniffing around _my_ story! I will not be out-scooped."

Baron's wristwatch beeped twice to signal the start of a new hour. He looked at the black numbers on the digital dial without the slightest attempt to disguise the time check. Johanna Gilchrist had been talking nonstop for four minutes. He held off his reply on purpose, pulling a tissue from his pocket with which he wiped the spittle that had rained onto his desk from her mouth. He walked around it and sat on the edge with his arms crossed on his chest.

"Bina is not yours Miss Gilchrist; you can't own a town or its people and I'm sure you don't need to be reminded that the dead Iraqis you taped were not schoolteachers but armed _terrorists_ who shot down a helicopter and killed five Americans."

"That doesn't change the fact that your people destroyed their…" He didn't let her finish.

"Or that you agreed to turn in your footage to help with the resolution of an ongoing conflict as a show of goodwill _and_ to make up for releasing the names of our casualties before their families could be notified in a dignified manner. Am I right?"

"You will not bully your way out of your end of the bargain Captain. I am a journalist!"

"No Miss Gilchrist you are a parasite hiding behind a press jacket but I have to put up with you nonetheless."

"Captain I want…"

"Benally," he boomed interrupting Johanna a second time. "What are you doing?" The woman, standing in the doorway of the communications tent with the Filipino cook in tow stopped in her tracks. The tent flapped closed as she turned around to face an angry Baron.

"I have a friend in Tikrit who speaks Tagalog Sir. He's going to translate your instructions for the cook." Baron absorbed the information and dismissed her with a nod of the head, elated at the thought of taking his evening meal without worrying about the cook's questionable hygiene habits.

Kai Benally took one last look at Baron's locked jaws and the reporter's flushed face then disappeared inside the communications tent. She pulled a chair for her guest, dialed a number she didn't need to look up and after brief greetings handed over the phone. She watched until it was clear by the woman's gestures that the right topics were being discussed and walked the length of the tent to the exit on the opposite side. She consulted a layout of the camp inked roughly in her right palm and looked both ways before setting out for the table tennis game already in progress two tents away.

"So, what do you think about a female lieutenant?" Pvt. Frank Dumphy asked paddling his dog tags and the ping pong ball into Maurice Williams' side of the table all in the same sweep of his arm. His hand brushed the table losing him a point that tied the game 6-6.

"I think some college boy can't type."

"Yeah obviously but I mean a female, you don't have an opinion?" Williams seemed to ponder the question.

"She ugly?"

"That's not an issue," Dumphy replied serving, a note short of a whine.

"It is if you want my opinion Dimwit." Williams head bobbed up and down with the ball.

"About whether or not a woman can do the job not whether you can do her!"

"Underpants couldn't do shit so squatting to piss ain't the issue Dimwit." He bounced the ball hard and it caught Dumphy unaware. It rolled out of sight.

"Smoke is a feminist," Brenda piped in singsong.

"I love _all_ the females Mrs. B, even you."

"What do you think Sergeant?" Dumphy asked setting down his paddle. There was no answer for fifteen seconds while SSgt. Christopher Silas negotiated a tricky turn on _Grand Theft Auto: Vice City_. Beside him Pfc. Tariq Nassiri paused his own stake in the game waiting for Silas' reply. The latter realized the room was waiting.

"I think I'm not dumb enough to get dragged into this," he said shaking his head.

"So you think you are dumb Sergeant?" Del Rio asked from her end of the couch. She reached over the back and handed over her Como Quiz answers for Mitchell to grade.

"Finish your quiz Doublewide. I'm _dying_ to know your '_Sex and the City_' personality." Esmeralda blushed. She was not the Cosmo Quiz type.

"Why doesn't anyone have an opinion?"

"Coz it's 105 fucking degrees outside Dimwit. Go get the damn ball so I can finish beating your ass man."

He did. He dragged his feet out of the tent and used his folded hat to shield some of the harsh sunlight roasting every uncovered surface around him. He was on his hand and knees peering at the space between each sandbag piled waist-high around the tent when Lieutenant Benally's shadow surprised him off balance. She was a woman with a purposed and dismissed him before he could stand fully upright in acknowledgement.

"There are two trucks in the motor pool with no sandbags," Dumphy heard her say as he followed the Lieutenant inside. She pulled the plug on the video game. "I want a shovel in each of your hands in one minute and those trucks squared away before anybody else comes back into this tent. Is that clear?"

There were seven nods of agreement, even one from SSgt. Silas' startled head. At 5'4" Lt. Kai Benally was only taller than Pvt. Brenda Mitchell but her orders had sounded a lot taller than that. She bent down beside the couch and picked up a ping-pong ball just beneath the sofa's skirt. It bounced on the table eight times before it rolled against the net in the middle and stopped on the edge.

By the time all of first squad was ankle deep in sand in the process of filling enough sandbags to protect the two trucks as ordered, the mood in the pit was downright mutinous. The fact that Lieutenant Benally joined them ten bags into the detail with a shovel and a straight face did not matters help. Frank Dumphy emptied shovelfuls into the open bag between his legs stabbing the sand as he went.

The mix of anger and frustration in him was volatile. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell off this idiot beside him, this Hunter II he had wanted so much to like only minutes earlier, but SSgt. Silas' shovel clipped his and a glimpse of his eyes led him to swallow the words unsaid. He looked up with murder in his eyes, disappointed that his role model was just standing there; hiding his tail then saw Captain Baron closing in on them with Johanna Gilchrist quick on his heels. Dumphy relaxed as he realized he'd been ordered to shut-up not out of cowardice but because their CO would be within earshot before he put enough words together to make a dent.

"Lt. Benally," Baron said through clenched teeth stopping in front of the sand pit, "what are you up to now?" Benally dropped her shovel and stood up. The sand pile beneath her feet brought her eye to eye with the Captain.

"I asked Sgt. Silas and his men to help me outfit the two trucks going back out with the re-supply Sir. The cook is already squared away, Sir." Baron looked from Gilchrist and her press jacket to the men and two, no three women shoveling sand in the pit.

"Sergeant. I. Need. Someone. I need _someone_ to get Miss Gilchrist off my ba..." Baron didn't finish the word. He remembered his orders to be polite and helpful with members of the press whenever operationally possible. "Never mind Sergeant, Lieutenant. You are gainfully engaged, carry on." And he was gone.

Seven heads watched his progress then strained to hear the exchange a hundred feet away where Sergeant Murphy was yoked into public relations and put in charge of Johanna Gilchrist. The same seven heads turned back to Lt. Benally in the sandpit. The tension at boiling point a moment before drained almost visibly. Benally unscrewed the neck of the shovel and folded it in thirds. She threw it in a box with others like it and gave all of first squad a Mona Lisa smile before walking away. Pvt. Williams was the first to speak.

"Was that… was she…"

"Yup," Dumphy replied.

"Doing us like a favor?"

"Yup. Unless you wanted to hang with the Tapeworm," Dumphy added in reference to Johanna.

"So then…"

"Uh-huh. The new L-T is one of us."

"This I gotta see Dimwit." SSgt. Silas looked at Williams and Dumphy's exchange with amusement he was able to keep to himself. The men were standing with their hands on their hips like old ladies chatting away at a coffee house. He resumed his shoveling.

"The new L-T is an officer," Angel said joining Silas. "Don't forget you are a grunt." His first words in the past hour were as usual, on point. SSgt. Silas checked his watch, picked up four of the filled sandbags and started toward the truck.

"Get back to work Dim, Smoke, we are relieving third platoon in two hours," he said over his shoulder.

"Food detail again Sarge? Damn, we are taking turns with Echo Company! We are not up again until next week!"

"Scheherazade lives in al-Bareed Dimwit," Williams said lowering his voice enough so that Silas loading the sandbags in the back of the truck nor the rest of the squad around them could hear him. "Why do you think he's been so laid-back all _month_?"

"Hell if that's all it takes to make him happy I'd have…" Dumphy's voice trailed off as he realized there was no safe way to end his statement.

* * *

If you haven't had a chance to count them, there are 118 ridges on the sides of every dime.

Thy Author and Her Editor.


	5. Bold

A: Want to play Army men with me? B: Who are they battling? A: Oh my Army men don't battle. B: What? Then how do they resolve their disputes? - Army Man #1: Sarge, when that man point his rifle at me, it makes me feel sad. Army Man #2: You need to tell him that Johnny. Yeah, I know, it was way funnier in the Comics page.

* * *

Anyone who knew him could have spotted SSgt. Christopher Silas' bad mood from another continent. He'd been caught unaware by the neighborhood children's return from school while he waited for Jamila in the makeshift terrace in front of her apartment. He was stranded in place by two games of sidewalk jump rope, chastising himself for his irresponsibility, for risking so much in exchange of whatever time he could steal to see her between shift changes. It was usually only an hour when military presence was its greatest and he was least likely to be noticed coming and going; two hours if he was luck and Murphy could be recruited into play.

He had decided as he jimmied the flimsy lock on her a door half an hour earlier that not having a lieutenant looking over his shoulder had made him bold and therefore stupid and Christopher Silas was not one to suffer fools kindly. He was on her couch now being even stupider, waiting. He had looked through her desk for a pen and a piece of paper to leave a note. "I was here, I broke your door, I'm sorry, I hope $20 will cover repairs," something simple he could leave with the Eisenstaedt book he'd bought for her on R&R, so she wouldn't be scared when she found her door open and its lock breached. His M9's Russian cousin in a drawer felt like a slap.

It was older but recently cleaned and loaded and what made all the whistles go off in his head; in the possession of a woman who'd been held at gunpoint in front of him less than a year earlier, who'd balked at being in the same room with a gun half that long ago. He had cleared and pocketed the pistol and searched her place from top to bottom in ten minutes knowing where to look because he'd been trained. Nothing turned up.

New furniture wasn't evidence. Neither was the air conditioner in the bedroom, the water heater in the bathroom, the refrigerator and the stove in the kitchen, all the canned meat and fruits in the cupboards, a television set still in its box or a laptop computer that would set him back about three months base pay. He'd gone through every explanation that justified the newfound wealth without making her one of _them_ or in Smoke-Speak, a sand nigger.

Every hair in his arms was standing on end when Jamila pushed the door open and his hand was on the grip of his M9 when her veiled head peered in. Whatever apprehension the broken door had caused was gone when she saw his face.

"What are you doing here?" She asked with a smile that almost made him forget. Almost.

Silas didn't answer. Jamila's veil came off and a bag of groceries did too. Their eyes met through the mirror hanging behind the door. Her hair was Rosemary Woodhouse short again. She didn't turn around to continue speaking.

"I don't have time for sulking children so say whatever is on your mind or leave." Silas shrugged out of his M4 and setting the rifle beside him, by the helmet, held up the gun he'd found on her desk, now without a magazine, by the trigger guard.

"You look settled in," he said. Jamila walked towards the computer. She flipped it open and turned it on.

"And you look like you've been sitting there for a while coming up with explanations so pick your favorite and get out of my house. It's been a long day. I want to be alone."

"Well, I want tickets to the Super Bowl XL but I gotta tell you it's not looking good."

"Who died and appointed you Grand Fucking Wizard of Accountability?" She asked foregoing the computer for a Mandarin orange from the grocery bag.

"The goddamned President of the United States, and he's not dead sweetheart." Silas stood up. He closed his eyes, trying to scale back the anger and dread enough so to be able to think before opening his mouth. "Don't make me do my job please," he begged.

"You'd really drag me out of here in handcuffs Sergeant?" His reply was all business.

"That computer alone costs more than I make in three months so tell me how you can afford all of this on a midwife assistant's salary and why you are keeping a loaded 9mm in your desk or yes, I'll have to take you in for questioning."

"You can call it back pay."

"Who owes you 20,000 dollars?"

"My father," she said at last. "He didn't seem to think I'd require compensation for putting together his bids for reconstruction work for the Brits. The gun is his too and just because I keep it oiled and clean doesn't mean I like the damn thing." Jamila threw the peeled tangerine against the wall. She'd perfected the art of hurling stuff as a pampered wife and it wasn't an easy habit to shake. She rooted through a stack of papers underneath the computer and threw those too; invoices with prices outlined in pounds sterling and product descriptions attached.

"Aegis?" He asked scanning the papers because he couldn't afford take her word at face value. He didn't trust himself enough for that.

"Aegis Defence. It's a British Halliburton. My family supplies the food for Aegis contractors and they can reserve 1,500 cubic feet in secure convoys once per month." Silas eyed the invoices. Paid for by Malik Haddad in Basra, shipped in care of Jamila Haddad, Mosul. He folded the invoices.

"Put yourself in my shoes."

"I'm a big girl Sergeant. You don't have to coddle me," she said disappearing into the kitchen where cupboards opened and closed before she reappeared with an inch of dark, amber whisky in each of the glasses in her hands. She gave one to Silas and drained the second.

"I don't drink whisky." Jamila raised an eyebrow and drained the second glass too as if she'd answered her own question without him. It didn't burn so much the second time. Silas slipped the portrait book from between his shirt and body armor. The hard cover was slightly damp. He wiped it with his sleeves and put it on her desk.

"I saw it in the airport; I thought you might like it."

"Eisenstaedt!" She smiled thumbing the cover. "I love his portrait of Goebbels. It gives me goose bumps."

"I should have known that."

"What?"

"I bought it for Marilyn Monroe and you like Hitler's Minister of Propaganda."

"Just his photo," she flipped the pages to Joseph Goebbels and held it up for him. "Doesn't it chill your blood?" It did. She turned more pages and stopped at Marilyn Monroe's headshot, fuzzy around the edges. "You remembered Marilyn," she added smiling. Silas blushed. Jamila lay down the book. It fell open to a streetwalker in knee-high boots on the Rue Saint-Denis. The line of her shoulders softened.

"I'm sorry about that Little Red Riding Bitch lapse," she said stepping closer. He chuckled and traced the fading scars in her face, lingering along the one on her jawline.

"I can't apologize for searc…"

"I'd think less of you if you did." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

* * *

Ta da! That was chapter five. I like Jamila.

Thy Author.


	6. Powwow

Here's Chapter #6. I haven't posted one of those all purpose disclaimers in a while so let me do that now: I don't own, I borrow. I _wish_ I owned Sgt. Scream but sadly a number of laws and precepts of reality vs. fiction keep me from keeping Sgt. Hotness in the closet for personal enjoyment. Drat.

* * *

"Read anything good lately Lieutenant?" Captain James Baron's highly developed stalking skills were not rusty. He had managed to sneak up on 1st Lieutenant Kai Benally as she read the upside down literature on his desk without alerting neither her nor his XO, typing away with like a madman, of his presence in the tent. She didn't quite jump but it was clear his question startled her.

"Yes Sir, _Learning to Eat Soup with a Knife_" Baron stared her down, awarding mental points for the smooth save.

"Vietnamese counterinsurgency; not bad."

"Surprisingly relevant, Sir. I'm almost done if you want to borrow it." Baron sat down. He delayed further dialogue on purpose then changed his mind.

"Weiss," he said to his XO "round up my squad leaders. I think it's time to introduce Lieutenant Benally into polite society." The tapping on the keyboard slowed down as Weiss absorbed the information then stopped when his brain sent all the proper signals to his arms and legs. He made a left for the first of four stops.

"Take a seat Lieutenant; I'm getting a crick in my neck" She did. "What do you think about Bina?"

"I think we were too hasty in turning it over to the Iraqis and it shows."

"Tell me why Lieutenant." Baron popped a piece of hard candy in his mouth, butterscotch, and reclined his chair. "We both know you weren't reading my shopping list."

"The ink isn't even dry on all the handover coverage and they already have a General, all the brass under him and at least three news networks wringing their hands. Meanwhile, the story on Thamir is about to break, we haven't had eyes and ears in Bina for two weeks and getting them there now makes us look like assholes."

"Anything else?" He asked.

"You mean why no one's wondered how a man who evades capture for three years gets picked up in a coffee shop by an off duty cop without a single shot fired?" Baron didn't let his face betray his agreement. Playing devil's advocate was too much fun.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar ma'am."

"And sometimes it's a really big dick Sir," she said springing to her feet as the non-commissioned part of the meeting came into view. She had four folding chairs lined up beside hers when they trickled in. Baron rearranged the papers on his desk for two minutes giving the NCOs plenty of time for a silent and not so discreet sizing-up of the commissioned oddity.

"At ease, sit down," he ordered. "As you know, the seven of spades in your deck of cards, Husam Thamir Ibrahim al-Sadun, was apprehended in Bina a week ago today. Two days ago the chief of police refused to turn him over to coalition forces claiming that Bina has the right to prosecute him for crimes committed in their jurisdiction.

"Al-Jazeera," he continued after emptying half a bottle of water without putting the rim to his lips "is holed up with Thamir in his brand new cell at the city jail and Sgt. Murphy; you are familiar with Miss Gilchrist from SCN Network vying for the same story. Before we move north, we have been tasked with security for a second meeting on Wednesday when Lieutenant Colonel Lyle is gonna try to convince the chief that it's in his best interest to hand over their prisoner.

"Lyle will have his own men pulling personal security so you'll be setting up roadblocks at every access point to Bina and monitoring all incoming and outgoing traffic. That'll be anything or anyone that moves. If it's going in or out, we know about it. You'll be working under Lt. Benally on this one; she's been assigned to first platoon in Lieutenant Hunter's place.

"I want you in place tomorrow before first prayers. Your squads have patrolled Bina and trained its police force for a month so you'll be on familiar ground until Thamir is in US Army custody. Any questions?"

Each head before Capt. James Baron nodded a quick no and ignored the growling stomach he placated with more water. The sky outside was thick gray slate tinted pink at the horizon and having skipped lunch, Baron was ready for his first ever ass-dander free dinner in… much longer than he cared to count.

"All right, dismissed." There was shuffling and more furtive looks towards Lt. Benally as the squad leaders dispersed and Baron long gone when she found herself alone in the command tent. Bored of waiting for the lean, wiry Corporal charged with finding her a bunk for the night, she ran to catch up with SSgt. Silas on his way to the mess hall.

"Hold up Staff Sergeant," she said to his retreating back.

Silas did. He looked Benally up and down from the confines of the type of face that usually won the World Series of Poker while her interest became entangled on the signpost behind him pointing towards twenty major cities in the continental United States. Lt. Benally righted the wobbly sign and proffered a semi-clean hand to shake once the wooden arrow showing the way to Phoenix, Arizona was correctly positioned again.

"Yes ma'am." He shook the hand briefly.

"I want to get your thoughts on the garment manufacturing sector of The Commonwealth of the Mariana Islands Staff Sergeant." Kai managed this straight faced, keeping up good eye contact and nary a stray chuckle as she spoke.

"Ma'am?"

"In the interest of brevity Sergeant," she said in the same serious tone but obviously meaning it now "you and I both know my tenure with Bravo Company will be a short one and now is a good a time as any to tell you I know you know I know I don't know."

Silas gave her another brief, puzzled ma'am.

"Man woman or goat, Sergeant, no newly minted officer knows shit about leading twenty-three men anywhere no matter how much he shines his pretty butter bars. The stupid ones would rather die than admit this, the smart ones will know to listen to their platoon Sergeant specially if they happen to be on their third tour with all their fingers and toes accounted for. I'm not stupid Sergeant."

SSgt. Silas was temporarily disarmed. Lt. Alexander Hunter was hardly the norm in the Army, there was intelligent life in the Officer's club and Captain Baron was living proof in the mess hall with the food he'd been longing to taste for over an hour now, but very few were so quick to realize they should look to NCOs for advice let alone pointers on little things like leadership and strategies that worked in real life. Unsure of what to say, he went with the truth.

"I'm glad to hear that ma'am."

"Sunrise is scheduled for 0540 tomorrow Sergeant, don't let the bedbugs bite."

* * *

My editor cut my namesake's bit; just said it was non-plot-advancing slough and _deleted_ 200 words!

Thy Author and Editor Meany, pout.


	7. Holey Ideology

You know what; try as I might the backbone for this story turned into a continuation of the main fodder in Holy Roller Novocaine. I can't divorce the two without a serious headache and since I'm not into self-immolation that's that a'ight?

Also, you'll notice my bad guys are speaking English when they should be speaking Arabic but I need them to say more than _Allahu Akbar_ every once in a while therefore English it is. If you knock back a couple of dry martinis and squint your eyes maybe you can pretend it _is_ Arabic? Hey, it's worked for me!

**_Fajr_**: the 1st of 5 daily prayers recited from dawn to sunrise by practicing Muslims.

**

* * *

**

It was the general consensus amidst the whole of first platoon that Lt. Kai Benally was too damn awake for 4:15 in the morning or 0415 military time. First platoon had been up and at it for breakfast at 0330 –no one could possibly begin to digest the first bite of lumpy western style eggs without a serious jolt of adrenaline to kick start the process, but the woman was a poster girl for legally sanctioned stimulants.

The headcount results SSgt. Silas reported revealed what Lt. Benally knew to begin with; no one was AWOL (no doubt in part because there was no damn place good enough for one to go be absent without leave and make it worth the trouble). The twenty-three present, drivers, medic and reporter not included, were packed and ready to go, despite an appearance that begged the contrary. With the thermometer registering a cool 37 degrees Fahrenheit for the third day in a row, none of the men seemed to shake hibernation mode until they were face to face with the sun. Winter was looming in northern Iraq.

"At ease," Benally said to the platoon then called the squad leaders to the front. No one moved. For bodies that were just beginning to acclimate to the extreme heat, it was just _too_ cold.

She zipped up the neck of her polypro jacket, glad for the extra protection against the elements. It would undoubtedly warm up to the point the thermal undies became a nuisance in just a couple of hours but at that very moment, they made her ass feel like it was in a nice, toasty heaven and that was a-okay. She looked at the four-wide wall of sergeants in front of her and put aside a _very_ unprofessional thought involving a bottle of Jim Bean and two of the men; damned General Order number one.

"Four access points and four squads, that's an easy split. You've done roadblock duty in Bina a couple of times before, did you switch positions?"

"No ma'am. Each squad dug in at an access point. Three of them have covered guard posts, south one's just Jersey barriers and sandbags on the side of the road," Murphy volunteered.

"Perfect. Each squad will cover familiar ground and keep me informed of anything out of the ordinary, especially traffic patterns and the kind of people coming and going. I want to have Bina on my sights. Who covered the east roadblock?" SSgt. Silas raised a gloved hand.

"Mine ma'am."

"Shit Sergeant, it must be your lucky day."

"Yes ma'am." Silas said.

"All right; your men are packed for a couple of days unsupported, there's food and water in the trucks… any questions?"

"What about the reporter ma'am? She's been circling the motor pool since 0200." Benally checked her watch and clicked her tongue. The resulting sound was like the hissing of frying eggs.

"I was hoping she'd be asleep by now. Damn it."

"Not her ma'am. She camped out on the truck with the rucks."

"South was the slowest the last time right? Who manned that?" Sgt. Murphy's face fell in silent response. The lieutenant smiled.

**-X-**

An hour's drive from Bravo company's temporary digs The Villain was eating breakfast on The Failure's desk which the former had usurped a week earlier with an unconvincing song and dance about a defiled motherland in need of a boost from her children. And a suitcase full of cash. They went hand in hand, dollars and holey ideology especially in convincing Colonel Hassan Ghazi and his growing disillusionment at his figurehead position in the New Iraq.

On his part, Rashid Sabawi was living proof that bad people didn't always come with hairy warts and crooked noses to single them out. He was beautiful and not handsome but _beautiful_, with smooth, tanned skin, grey-blue eyes that looked eerily out of place in a flattering way and curly black hair still dark and full despite his forty odd years. His reputation for moral turpitude had saved him from the curse of man-pretty not that the oodles of money he used to finance his forays into the murkier aspects of human nature hurt that whole _Shakespeare_'s Iago meets _The Lion King_'s Scar image either.

He heard footsteps in the hallway and set his fork on the outer edge of a lovely porcelain plate filled with breakfast food the good Colonel had cooked to order himself. There was a knock at the door but he waited to he hear the second, longer rap before muttering a disinterested 'come in' to the expectant Ghazi.

"How are the preparations Colonel?"

"Right on schedule sir. The men are gathered downstairs for **_Fajr_**."

"Have them wait for me Ghazi. I think I should like to lead them this morning. Anything on the scanners?"

"Nothing we can use but Farooq is my most capable lookout."

The briefing went back and forth for several minutes. Rashid picked up his fork deeming Ghazi's news dull and brought a mouthful of crispy bacon to his mouth. He chewed with wicked delight. If holy cows made the best burgers, slabs of forbidden pig fat cooked to perfection by self-professed holy men made the best breakfast, no questions asked.

"They'll have snipers on the east. Stay clear of the windows to be safe. It would be a pity to lose at this point," he said swallowing.

"I am not one of your illiterate soldiers Rashid. You and I both know the Minister is too important for the Americans to come in guns blazing." Ghazi's voice was an expressionless, monotone train. It was the only way he could manage to hide his contempt of Rashid. Each was aware of the mutual hatred that bound them but too pompous or too polite to let on.

**

* * *

**

If you thought this was a rather short chapter, you are perceptive. I slashed a lot of irredeemably bad expository dialogue outta here. I'm delete button happy today and that reminds me, if you want to see a very depressing movie, you should rent Paradise Now.

Thy Author.


	8. Trunk Tricks

Stray fact of the day: I've gleamed from my reading that **_adhan_** –the call to prayer in Islam, only takes place in the morning and at night. They kinda trust you to figure out when you gotta go pray the other three times. Now if you are ever on Jeopardy and they ask, you can send me a check and a thank you note or you know buy more crack whichever tickles your fancy.

**_Abaya_**: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.

**_Keffiyeh_**: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called **_egal_**.

**_Thobe_**: ankle-length garment with long sleeves normally made of cotton and resembling a long robe. The name is used interchangeably with **_dishdasha_**

**_

* * *

_**

The guard post in the east was déjà vu down to the goat stink; every roadblock seemed to have the same dominant notes to its scent regardless of location. In the cold the attack on the olfactory cells wasn't so offensive but the sun was quick to take even this smallest of concessions by cooking the goat piss and other unidentified organic matter in various stages of decomposition into a strong, sinus-clearing stench rated right up there with the Fulton Fish Market. While Pvt. Dumphy busied himself applying squiggly lines on a slab of sheet metal to adorn the barricades on the road, Pvt. King kept an eye on accuracy, checking each doodle against the cheat sheet of handy Arabic phrases taped to the widest part on the butt of his M4.

No matter how unappealing, the signs ordering motorists to stop, slow down or produce identification always seemed to find their way to a shed roof or a donkey cart bottom and discovering the manual labor was effective as none in keeping Dumphy's mouth shut, SSgt. Silas had long made it the bespectacled Private's personal responsibility to get the new signs squared away even though Tariq was better at Arabic calligraphy and Williams' prowess with pressurized paint knew no match in all of northern Iraq.

After, they waited. This was always the most anticlimactic part. It made the morning call to prayer seem longer than it was and dawn look lazy in getting started especially for people squatting with several tens of pounds in gear hanging from them and uncomfortable but lifesaving helmets and very little pay, comparatively speaking.

The token old man was first; clad in progressively dirtier clothes, this time a **_thobe_** and a matching **_Keffiyeh _**each garment no doubt crusty from extended wear. He was a welcomed sight because he got the ball rolling and his donkey was something of a celebrity, having kicked the late Lieutenant Hunter ten feet in the air when Bravo Company first started patrolling Bina and Hunter had been condescending enough to try to mount the animal for a photo-op.

First squad knew from experience that their checkpoint could expect some twenty to thirty cars to come through, twice that many people trekking on foot to a mysterious, unknown location and a double-decker bus with room for eighty to close down the morning rush as it delivered the mostly female maintenance personnel serving a number of coalition sponsored offices in the outskirts of Mosul. The other checkpoints barring the south where Sgt. Murphy had once lain across the road for two hours undisturbed –this in a fit of boredom and outright idiocy caused by his on and off girlfriend in the States' insistence on an official breakup and sole custodianship of their four year old mutt Larry, could expect the same kind of action all around.

Area denizens were so used to the Americans by now though that progress was almost orderly and the bulk of those coming through knew to have their identifications available and to keep their insults in check. Heck, even the latter had gone down considerably after Pfc. Nassiri has taken the time to explain to the offended that he really didn't mean "my thumb up your ass" when he gave Williams the thumbs up that let him know he could wave a car through.

It was Tariq too, who recognized Franken-Wheels straining to make it to the checkpoint from one of the main roads out of town. The '79 Volvo was the only car he'd ever diagnosed with a smoker's cough. At one point on earlier duty, Pfc. Del Rio had tried to figure out the cause of the car's ailment and instead gave up. She could tell from just peeking under a hood chock full of harvested parts, that the only thing keeping the car together was wire and strangely enough, soap. Zifa Abtahi waved at Tariq. She was the stereotypical cheerleader puppy hybrid and that morning, seeing a new face at the roadblock, it really showed.

"_Assalamu'alaikum_," she said handing Lt. Benally one of the passport-like IDs issued to Iraqis at large by coalition forces bent on keeping track of the populace. Zifa's command of broken English vanished when she was nervous and it was clear the new lieutenant ruffled her yellow **_abaya_**.

"_Wa alaikum assalam,_" Kai replied in serviceable Arabic.

Both Tariq's and Zifa's eyebrows arched as if they'd arranged the reaction but their motives were different. Tariq took the proffered papers and checked them as if he hadn't seen them twenty times before. He did the same for the other five people in the car and clicked on his Wizard Wand. The metal detector made all the right noises on Zifa's robed body and the woman walked around the car, opened the trunk then returned to her seat behind the wheel. A nod of Nassiri's head let Williams know to keep an eye and a muzzle on the car. He called Lt. Benally to join him behind the open trunk.

"Sergeant said you wanted to know if anything wasn't kosher right ma'am?"

"What is it?" Kai asked peering into the tidy Volvo's trunk.

"For starters her English is pretty good except when she's nervous and then there are too many people in the car. It's never more than three of them. They all have work IDs too but the one on the right takes the bus and the other three I've never seen before."

"Ask them where they are going and let them through." She peered at the clearly nervous women over the open lid of the trunk. "And Tariq," she added slamming the trunk closed, "ask them in Arabic."

"That's it ma'am?"

"They are free, employed citizens of the New Iraq private. They might be into carpooling or they might be plotting to take over Burkina Faso but without smoking det caps we _have _to let them through."

"Yes ma'am." He met Zifa's eyes on the rearview mirror. "_Wein hal inti raayha_?"

"_Ihna raayhiin ilaa madinat shughul_" Tariq gave her a last hard look annoyed by whatever it was that he was supposed to be seeing but couldn't and relaxed his face a little to be able to close in a more civil note. Zifa waited for the 'thumbs up' signal and sped off as soon as she saw Pvt. Williams pull the roped barricade out of the way. The Volvo became smaller as the sound of a second car chugging their way became louder.

"What are you looking for ma'am?" He asked.

"Frankly PFC, I'm not sure." Lt. Benally listened intently, trying to determine when the next car would be coming through. "Keep doing what you are doing."

"Should I check all the trunks ma'am?" Kai seemed to ponder the question for a second. The next car was visible now.

"Trust your instincts Nassiri. _Wala yoldaghul moumenu min juhren marratayn_."

"The believer never gets a second snakebite from the same snake hole," he translated. Would anyone else really attempt any more trunk tricks after news of how they handled perceived threats spread? "Do you speak Arabic ma'am?"

"Enough to get myself _into_ trouble but not enough to get _out_," she said picking out a spot to sit behind the sandbags. Ten feet away leaning against the wall with an ear on the conversation and the other on the incoming car, Silas shook his head ever so slightly, only a breath short of a snort and threw away the stick he'd been using to poke at a mysterious yet smelly chunk of something black gooey now residing on his right boot.

* * *

If you know Arabic grammar, please don't spank me. Unless. No wait. Wrong forum. I read that snakebite saying a long, long time ago in a book about Saudi Arabia so no, I'm not suddenly a very wise old woman with an equally wise goat.

Thy Author


	9. Southern Belle

At long last, Magic Stick moves forth. Also, I am SO getting a Wife of the Year trophy.

* * *

Dumphy looked at his clearly labeled MRE crackers and sighed. He'd given away the peanut butter in the pack at lunchtime, to Lt. Benally nonetheless and even though there were plenty of unopened MREs with everything from jelly to cheese spread; something about ransacking their food supply for a couple ounces of Skippy Creamy seemed inappropriate while millions of people went hungry in Darfur.

He put aside the mid-afternoon snack and followed an ant trail into the guardhouse where the Lieutenant was making use of the least rickety chair and pretending to listen to music with her boots up on the leftover sandbags they'd used to dust the place and get it back to smelling semi-habitable. He went along with the i-Pod charade, wise to Silas' similar trick with the printed word and cleared his throat loudly.

"Ma'am?"

"Don't call me that, I'm not your mother," she said dislodging the dead earphones.

"Yes ma… Lieu…"

"How may I or my infinite wisdom help you soldier?" She interrupted softening the unintended bark in her voice to something more ladylike.

"I was wondering what you are looking for?"

"Why would you wonder that?"

"Well, because we've searched every car and double checked every ID coming through here but no one's had so much as a hair out of place." He hesitated before continuing and pointed from the cased binoculars on her lap to the tripod by the window.

"And you've been in here checking them out every couple hours but I thought we only have orders to hold down the fort for Lt. Colonel Lyle, ma'am."

Benally didn't react to the last, stray ma'am and instead stood up. She grabbed the binocular case and motioned for Dumphy to follow her to the window. They stood before the glassless frame, secure in the distance that put them out of range of the most ubiquitous weaponry in the hands of their iffy allies. Dumphy whistled when she screwed the pricey binoculars onto the tripod.

"Doting husband," Kai said adjusting scope and tripod height for Pvt. Dumphy who had to bend only slightly to look through them. "You are looking for the last window on the right," she added.

"That's Colonel Ghazi."

"What else?"

"He's reading the newspaper, shit; I can see the date on it ma'am!"

"Anything else?"

"He's sitting outside his office and not in it?" Frank looked up.

"Right. What's more, he's been _knocking_ on his office door before going in. Do you think Sergeant Silas would ask you to get off his cot if you were taking nap on it?"

Dumphy laughed nervously picturing the scenario. Even at his mellowest a couple weeks prior, even at the tail end of a year's deployment, the tension between Cerebral Frank and Practical Christopher was thick enough to cut with a knife. They had yet to bridge a gap that was nonexistent with King and Tariq and a hell of a lot shorter where Pvt. Maurice Williams was concerned.

"So you _don't_ think he wants to hold on to the Minister of Interior because they really want to try him?"

"If you believe that, I can give you a great deal on a bridge in Brooklyn."

"How come?" He asked. She put away the binoculars.

"Bina doesn't exist in any map printed before 2003 Private. It was a glorified rest-stop along the highway until the Iraqi Police moved in. Everyone living here right now is either part of the force or lends service to it; the wives, the barber, the grocer, the mullah. His eloquent, yet hole-ridden jurisdiction argument is hairy sack of nuts."

"Who came up with the name?"

"Coffee mug at battalion. **B**urmese **I**ndependent **N**ews **A**gency."

"So we really turned the town over to the Iraqi for brownie points ma'am?"

"Dim," she said trying the man's nickname on for size "whether you like it or not, this is a very political war and all the rightful indignation in the world isn't going to change it. Had you, however, chosen to look at the part you can affect, i.e. fucking _them _before they get a chance to fuck _you_, you might have noticed the lookout on the roof isn't in issued livery, the shoulder-boards of the two uniforms posted outside match the Colonel's thus severely reducing the likelihood that they might be legit patrolmen and just for kicks, they've chosen to stage their dog and pony show when 90 of the force is on a training exercise on the Iranian border."

When it came to the line between southern bitch and southern belle, Kai Benally often found herself standing squarely on the wrong side.

**-X-**

Back in its nameless lean-to days when Bina first caught the eye of whoever was looking to centralize the Iraqi Police training efforts in northern Iraq, whatever structure wasn't easily accessible through the long main street had been razed and removed and the most appealing piece of real estate set aside to build a model police station complete with its very own dungeon –which is what it was even if in the official blueprints, the architect had decided to go with the less macabre 'holding cells' tag.

The Villain and The Failure were at it again in the aforementioned city jail where they had just finished checking in on Husam Thamir Ibrahim 'Too Many Names' al-Sadun and his personal journalistic attaché. They walked up the narrow stairwell to the first floor of the squat police station where the radio operator in the outfit, a male specimen stuck somewhere between puberty and any age that didn't get a 'teen' tacked to its end, was keeping an ear on the scanner the U.S. Army had released from its surplus inventory into the property of the Iraqi Police. As before, Salik had nothing new to report.

Rashid shook his pretty head in an over the top, melodramatic gesture that made the Colonel want to choke his shady, interim boss. Instead, he looked out the window to the building across the street that served as barracks for the single officers in the force. The married men in Bina were only the permanent cadre and their families had lucked out with new apartments eight blocks away on the two buildings on the outer edge of town.

"Do you really think they were going to provide us with a radio scanner that can intercept their secure transmissions?" Ghazi asked. The scorn that tinted his opinion of the man before him bled too far into his voice. Rashid considered the question.

"They believe the Sunnis and the Shiites will get along one day. I expect anything."

Ghazi squared his shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest.

"About that Mr. Sabawi," he said "I have been thinking. I shall leave tonight. You can kill the Lieutenant Colonel tomorrow as he gets out of his car. There is no need for this elaborate meeting you have orchestrated. I will join my men in the border for the end of their exercise."

Body language alone wasn't enough to sell the idea that he wasn't asking for permission. Ghazi stared up at Rashid, impotent in the heat of his powerful gaze.

"You will do no such thing Hassan. The interview _and _the Lieutenant Colonel's death will be broadcast on Al-Jazeera in that order. Do not mistake my disinterest in your lack of significance for anything more than it is."

**-X-**

"All right, I'll bite. Who pissed in your Wheaties Sergeant?" Kai wiped sweat from her forehead and looked at Silas in the passenger seat beside her.

"I don't know what you mean ma'am."

"And then the Holy Spirit whispered in Mary's ear and Jesus was born." They were three minutes out with the last roadblock behind them and the second car in the Humvee Indian file headed to a rendezvous with Captain Baron to be briefed before bed. It wasn't even time for the sun set but they were sleeping in shifts and not even heat, discomfort and tasteless, plasticky food could explain Silas' wrinkled brow.

"Okay." He nodded like one of those supermarket coin rides getting shiny new quarter, all full of energy and resolve. "For starters, you told Tariq you don't speak Arabic and Captain says different." He looked at the side of her face, intent on the road ahead.

"Dim is chatty as hell," he added "but he's got good instincts; you know something we don't and probably that Captain doesn't know either. Whether you think you are gonna be here for a day or a year, there are twenty-three men in this platoon ma'am and they are all your responsibility. I have a feeling we are going to get some action before this shit's over and the way this works is if you know _anything_ that'll make it even a little bit less dangerous for your men, you need to come clean."

She didn't say anything for a full minute. Silas bit down on the bite-valve of his Camelbak ™ issued hydration system –worn at individual discretion or as directed by the company commander, like he might treat the tapered end of a fifty dollar cigar.

"You are right," Kai said breaking the silent lull that had elapsed. Silas' ears perked up. A woman and an officer all of whom happened to be the same person had just admitted he was right. She was bursting with nervous energy, tapping a random rhythm on the steering wheel.

"I'm an intelligence officer Sergeant and I'm good at my job which means I have a lot bad habits like this principle that information is wealth and it has to be spent wisely but after you allow for all that, I still only have hunches and theories."

"And I prefer considering an educated guess at my discretion than walking in blind so shoot."

"This thing about keeping Thamir to put him on trial in Bina; it sounds good when Joe Blow tunes in Podunk but I think it's a load of crap. You agree?"

"Could be; Ghazi's not local. The Batman act stinks."

"I have a lot of time to look at all the angles when no one's shooting at me so what if, shit. I hope this doesn't sound stupid…"

"If it's stupid and it works it's not stupid ma'am," Silas interrupted hoping the gist of it was more inspirational than the sentence itself.

"Have you noticed how in the last couple of weeks no one's hurrying to claim car bombs in time for the evening news? Usually Mufasa's Second Army or Ali Baba's Cave Raiders are claiming the damn thing before the main charge goes off but for the past month… nada."

"Wasn't Mufasa the Lion King ma'am?" He asked. Kai laughed.

"Seriously though, what if this isn't about Allah at all? What if it's just about creating a distraction big enough that no one will notice Jihad Joe is trying to get the hell out of Dodge?

"Why go through all that trouble? All the borders are like Swiss cheese."

"Every self-respecting warlord from here to Timbuktu is the biggest advocate for peace in Iraq you'll ever meet and helping Thamir evade capture is not going to help _them_ so they figure why the hell bother?

"Nobody likes to dwell on all the high quality heroin coming through Iraq since we moved in but it doesn't change the fact that it's a problem. A kilo worth a $1,000 in Afghanistan brings in over $800K retail. Under Saddam people like Thamir had to be paid off. It added a lot of administrative costs to the tab so if you are on the supply end of the chain, you had to find an alternate route; Iran, Syria, Turkey, Jordan who cares as long as you kept it moving.

"Then suddenly, Papa Saddam's not in power anymore. It's Christmas in March! You can smuggle billions of dollars worth of heroin for next to nothing and there are no government officials to bribe and no warlords to finance.

"You think the hundred kilos in Qadiya and the other big bust in Arbil, you think it's all related ma'am?"

"At least loosely. The drugs destroyed in Qadiya were probably _meant_ to be found Sergeant. They can move ten times that much product in one single NGO truck while all the attention is on a big load like that…"

Lt. Benally's voice trailed off when Sgt. Murphy hit the brakes ahead of them making the red taillights light up cheerily. She stepped on the brakes herself and began slowing down. Baron's Humvee was blocking the road up ahead and the Captain was already pacing the length of the vehicle and angrily if the way his boots hit the asphalt was any indication. The convoy crawled to a stop.

* * *

In case you don't want to scroll all the way up to the subject line, you just finished Chapter. 9.

Thy Author and Ze Editor.


	10. Qibla

I've been a Lazy Daisy. I got stuck on this then immersed myself in research for something else and anyway, here's some more Magic Stick. I should be picking up the pace nicely though because I'm stuck on the other story so writing this one _is_ the escape!

**_Qibla_**: refers to the direction that should be faced when a Muslim prays.

**_Zaqquum_**: a tree that Muslims believe grows in hell. Sinners are forced to eat its bitter fruit (**_Ad-Dhari_**) to intensify their torment.

**

* * *

**

"Lieutenant Benally! In the truck. Now." Baron's breath smelled like he had swallowed all his shares of Mylanta stock. Kai was too far away to notice though, which suited her just fine.

There was no 'how are you' in the afternoon's program and certainly no room for curtsies when she climbed in the back of the truck with the Captain on her heels. Outside the troop carrier, the men broke off the ranks by pay grades. Baron's driver joined the privates who made the trip with their squad leaders while the sergeants huddled together, each group in the farthest edges of hearing range from the forthcoming exchange. Inside, Baron and Kai faced one another in the passenger benches.

"Would you like to guess what I did today?" Kai began to answer. "It's a rhetorical question Lieutenant," he interrupted.

"I had a chat with Colonel Ryan. It seems that the MPs detained a 92 Whiskey last night after he got back from four days leave in Doha. He didn't report for duty you see, in fact he was nowhere _near_ battalion, he was picked up in _Kuwait_. Of course they let him go this morning when they realized that a water treatment specialist can't do an intelligence analysts' job but I think you know _why_ I am telling you this."

"Is it because the specialist and I have similar name Sir?" The Mylanta dragon exhaled through clenched teeth.

"Identical. What's more the specialist was really surprised to be getting _another_ four days R&R in Qatar because he was just there and that's not the darndest thing either. It seems they can't find the person who bungled not one or two but _three_ sets of orders. Major Waters' XO is on emergency leave. He'd be the one to know but his _dog_ died."

There was no response from Kai, no attempts at blubbering, fruitless explanations, no trembling chins, nothing. Baron's voice dropped to a whisper.

"If I so much as _begin_ to suspect you had a hand in this Lieutenant, if this turns out to be an attempt to…" Baron shuddered thinking of the late Hunter's glory hogging ways and the focus of his outburst changed. "Colonel Ryan left your immediate future in my hands ma'am and I think you are still an asset to this mission regardless of how exactly you landed here. Do _not_ make me regret my decision."

"Yes sir."

"The latest from your colleagues," he said handing her the most up to date dirt that had been gathered on the area. He poked his head out of the back of the truck and found a simple nod of his head enough to gather the squad leaders with him. The trapped air became thicker as the four extra men piled in.

"What's new in Bina today Lieutenant?" Baron asked.

"Everyone's gone sir. There were a lot of jumpy drivers heading out in the morning and a lot more people on foot than the norm. I don't think there's anybody left in town who has the means to get the hell out. Colonel Ghazi's two wives left first thing in the morning and less than ten percent of them were back as when we headed out.

"They have a lookout on the roof of the station and fake policemen on either side of the door. We know Thamir has a reporter with him and it looks as if someone's taken over Ghazi's office so I think it's safe to assume if he can relieve the Colonel of his office, he probably brought along more than a couple of rent-a-cops."

"Ah, the sweet smell of Calvin Klein Ambush," Baron muttered. He looked up, making eye contact with the lieutenant and the four sergeants beside her. "Lyle is still on for tomorrow and what's more he's coming with volunteers from the Red Cross and Amnesty International in case there's a prisoner exchange. They want to make sure we are being diligent about human rights."

"Have there been any changes to our orders Sir?" Kai asked handing intelligence reports that backed her suspicions on to SSgt. Silas to her left.

"No."

"In that case I'd like to request permission to move closer to Thamir, Sir."

"You mean move into town Lieutenant?" Captain Baron asked needing reiteration.

"Yes Sir. Evening prayers are coming up and intelligence confirms the single-officer barracks across the street will be empty for the night. We have plenty of time to move in while they pray and maybe hearing strange noises go bump in the night will rattle them enough to step up the timeline."

"Who do you want to take Lieutenant?"

"As many men as possible Sir; three from first and third squads and four from Sergeants Murphy and Glick plus anyone you can spare to join the guys left behind at each roadblock." There was a silent minute of synchronized breathing shared by the six people in the truck and it stretched near discomfort until Baron spoke.

"Okay." Five pairs of eyes looked at him with varying degrees of surprise.

"SSgt. Silas will help you pick the men. You'll take two trucks. One will cruise up and down the street and make some noise and the other will drop off the men in the blind-spot here," he said pointing out the place in surveillance photos he had in his hand "in case the lookout prays on the roof. If we get lucky they'll rethink whatever stupid shit they are planning for tomorrow and we don't, maybe you'll have enough in the morning to convince the brass that it's time to take off the fucking kid gloves."

Kai delayed her exit after the four sergeants jumped out of the truck when she sensed the unasked question in the wrinkle between Capt. Baron's eyebrows.

"Penny for your thoughts, Sir," she said retying her bootlaces, deciding to stay only as long as her hands were busy on uniform upkeep.

"Ma'am, if you were to…"

"Would you be terribly opposed to say… sight seeing, Sir?" She interrupted like a true plausible deniability guard dog. "I find the local architecture remarkable. I'd love to see it up close, with your blessing of course."

"You should take SSgt. Silas with you ma'am. He is quite the expert in this subject."

**-X-**

Farooq was Colonel Ghazi's best –only, for anyone into hairsplitting accuracy, lookout. He was also probably the only person to look to him without pity or disdain. Neither man was very clear on just how this had happened and Ghazi, who benefited the most from the ego boosting effect of such respect, was too smart to question Farooq's intent. Captain Baron had been right too, Farooq had too much foresight to pray indoors with his brethren. He had availed himself of clean sand for ablutions and plenty of patience to listen to a recording of Abdul Rauf, whoever he was, singing the call to prayer. Bina's spiritual advisor had been on the first donkey cart out of town that morning.

The lookout, Farooq, was on his hands and needs rubbing sand on his nether-regions when he heard the Humvee approaching. Although he was pretty sure impure thoughts about the little blue sticker on his lunchtime banana were not enough to negate his earlier cleansing, when it came to eating the bitter fruit of the **_Zaqqum_** tree for all eternity, he wasn't about to take the chance.

His hands rushed to unsheathe and train the outdated night vision equipment the Colonel had provided from the police's own arsenal towards the source of the noise even though he now knew enough about Humvees to tell that this one could use a look-see in its carburetor. The setting sun bent the shadows awkwardly, delaying actual visual confirmation but he was on the radio trying to raise Sadik nonetheless.

The soldier at the wheel of the Humvee gunned the engine and shone his headlights into the station, making a hard right at the intersection. Farooq cursed under his breath torn between staying in place like he had been ordered and updating the Colonel like he yearned to do. He tried to crawl on his hands and knees to the edge of the roof where the view was better and backed away when the barrel of the mounted M-60 proved too… aimed for comfort. Three buildings east of all his indecision, Lt. Benally, SSgt. Silas and the thirteen men the latter had helped the former handpick, moved into the deserted barracks less than forty feet away from their boy Thamir.

**-X-**

Approaching the police station under the relative cover of darkness provided a semblance of security to both Silas and Kai but then walking into a proverbial lion's den without helmets or radios and carrying only a sidearm each evened out the Up Shitcreek feel of the thing. They inched closer, attuned to the slightest noise; footsteps, insects doing insect-y stuff, and their own breaths. She could tell where each of the men watching was positioned across the street but that too was little consolation.

Silas tried the door but the scales didn't tip in his favor. Each soldier produced old, weathered lock-pick kits. The staff sergeant pocketed his with gentlemanly deference, turned on his flashlight and watched what looked like a Navajo Indian tickling a lock until it clicked. She stood on her toes of and peered through the slot on the heavy door trying to get a closer look at the other side. He did the same with the advantage of height and nodded. Whoever was supposed to keep watch had outsourced the job to a glass jar balanced on the doorknob; ghetto ADT so to speak.

Something blue in the outermost edge of his peripheral vision caught his attention. Kai was spraying WD-40 on the hinges from a three ounce travel sized can. Silas caught the airborne jar as she pushed the heavy door in and returned it to its place once past.

They'd discussed the visit briefly before starting at which point they'd split goals, betting the men would be distracted with prayer, unable to see intruders if they were facing **_Qibla _**on the west wing of the station, and busy for at least fifteen minutes, maybe longer if they needed special dispensations for the following day. He would check out the basement to confirm Thamir's likeliest position, she'd check out the Colonel's office in hopes of finding an outlined index of his upcoming plans complete with all pertinent, signed confessions in the extended addenda or barring that a clue.

The soles of their boots were ghostly quiet on the tile floor moving in opposite directions down each end of the hallway that made up the hat portion of the T shaped building. SSgt. Silas moved with a little more fluency. His descent into the basement was all muscle memory, recalling every detail of the place he had been able to memorize through the six weeks of training he'd helped impart to the fledgling Iraqi Police.

Lt. Benally's acquaintance with the structure was limited to the blueprints she had fished out of a filing cabinet back at battalion but she _had_ noticed the man praying on far end of the west wing, likely the one assigned to keep watch of the entire hallway, probably the one who'd trusted the glass jar to keep its eye out while he made godly peace and so wisely decided to enter Colonel Ghazi's office through the side door around the bend in the wall.

There was enough moonlight coming through the window to rate the visibility as acceptable. The office was plagued with tacky landscapes, outdated furniture, and a tapestry depicting Mecca at Ramadan, typical in all its glory. She was methodical in visual search of each quadrant of the room from the darkest spot between the two windows then squat to check for false bottoms cursing to when each new drawer proved to be on the up and up.

"Oh where oh where would you hide it Rashid? Oh where oh where would it be?" Kai muttered singsong under her breath rifling through the last drawer. She'd been a naughty lieutenant, hiding her very special interest in the Colonel's guest.

She ran an index finger along the length of the slats of carved wood dressing up the bottom edge of the desk and smiled. Her hand emerged from a pocket wrapped around a dark switchblade and she wedged the sharp edge between the seams in the wood on the left hand drawers but it didn't the budge. The right hand façade though, came off once littlest of pressure was applied by pulling the knife away from the desk. Kai reached in the concave six inch high gap and pulled out the black laptop computer inside.

Hewlett Packard might have been tickled to know it was the chosen brand name of worldly gun running, drug trafficking, white slavery sheiks –although if drunk enough Rashid was likely to insist he had diversified in the late eighties. Lt. Benally clipped a flash drive to one of the USB ports on the side and keyed in a long numeric sequence into the password prompt. Thirty-one seconds later, she was starting at a tidy desktop with a picture of Jenna Jameson as its backdrop. There was nothing holy about the way the actress' legs were spread.

The four gigabyte flash drive in her hand proved insufficient. It probably wouldn't even fit Rashid Sabawi's vacation slides.

"_Any data file of crucial importance will be padded to 1.45 GB_ _in size._" The ubiquitous e-mail chockfull of helpful tips to evil overlords far and wide by was a lot more popular than she had thought.

Kai turned off the computer off, flipped it over and uncapped the screwdriver on her nifty penlight-screwdriver combo, $7.51 plus shipping on e-Bay. She turned the tiny screw, removed the plastic plate and disconnected the hairy gray wires marrying the hard drive to the laptop. It went into a special sleeve for transport and the sleeve into her breast pocket and the breast pocket covered by her bulletproof vest. Rashid's excited voice some doors away was a low, shapeless noise with words blending into one another too far away to make any sense except for the briefest second when '_alhamdulillah'_ filtered clearly into the room.

One of Rashid's more enterprising soldiers, this one answering to the name of Asad, though Lieutenant Benally had no way of knowing this as she returned the computer to its hiding place, walked into the room. Mid-thirties Asad was one of a handful of more seasoned men hired to keep tabs on the younger fanatics that plumped Rashid's ranks and worked for a lot less money than seasoned mercenaries with large families to feed in obscure villages in Sudan.

He knew for a fact someone was in Colonel Ghazi's office; it was a gut thing and he trusted his gut because it had kept him alive for a great many years. The nagging suspicion that prompted his random check was not based in suspicions that his sophomoric trick with the glass jar had been ineffective. Oh no. He was there because he knew this was the likeliest location for Rashid's petty cash –half a mil in hundreds and fifties, and if the shifty radio operator or even British born reporter for Al-Jazeera were skimming cash, they'd have to cut him into the deal. His favorite wife really wanted a Juicy Couture track suit and at $98 bucks a pop, He was very much into overtime.

Asad moved in on the desk with his finger on the trigger of his AK. He did so cautiously, planning to surprise Sadik with his pimply hands on the money but jumped back dumbfounded when he recognized an American uniform on Lieutenant Benally squatting behind the desk with a silenced pistol drawn in her right hand and a plank of wood in the left. He had time to aim and pull the trigger but not to react when the AK jammed and the lieutenant lurched forward, ramming the vicinity of his robed knees with her whole body causing him to fall back on his elbows.

The rifle fell just out of reach, by Kai's equally estranged handgun. She swung the wood at his head. It missed by a half inch when Asad squirmed out of the way and onto her. They reached and grabbed each other's necks. His grip on her neck was better than hers. She tried to turn her head, to bite him, to get him off her before he could have enough time to think to yell for help. One man was still doable. However many were busy telling Allah all about what they were planning to do in his name… _that_ was Shitcreek.

She would have kissed Silas when he pulled Asad off of her. She would have kissed him for a lot less but the whole hide-saving bit was about as good an excuse as any. Asad's surprised scream came out as a muted trill in SSgt. Silas' chokehold as the latter pulled the former to his feet. Kai recouped her gun and returned the façade to the foot of the Colonel's desk when Asad went limp in Silas' grip. It was harder to gauge weight and build of a man in a dress. Silas loosened his arm muscles slightly and realized, a second too late at least for Asad's sake, that doing so had been a mistake.

The sound of the casing hitting the tile was louder than the single shot from Kai's silenced pistol. Silas saw the suppressor and looked down at her holstered M9 when he recognized a much lighter P22 in her hand. He wiped the dead man's blood off his face as more of it ran down to his bulletproof vest and began dragging him behind the desk. Lt. Benally hiked up Asad's shirt and removed his thin prayer rug from around his waist. She used it to wipe the blood spatter on the floor and then wrap the bloody head. They made it back across the street in fifty eight seconds flat without a single word said.

Silas had never been happier to see his dreadful helmet or his rifle as when he fell beside Pvt. Dumphy who'd been keeping watch on both and began getting the equipment back on. It took the young private a beat to see the blood on his sergeant and he jumped him, straddling the older man on the floor in order to check for injuries.

"Are you wounded Sergeant?" He yelled hysterically trying to get the stained body armor off him and shaking his half-secured helmet.

"Dim, stop," Silas yelled back at seemingly deaf ears. Dumphy kept pawing at his clothes. "Dim, stop it goddamnit, it's not my blood," he added slapping him hard across the face. "It's not my goddamned blood."

Pvt. Dumphy rolled off SSgt. Silas with his cheeks glowing red in the darkness. There was too much tension in the room for laughter to take ease the awkwardness. Lt. Benally finished with her helmet. She slipped her longer, heavier M16 over her head.

"Listen up. You, you and you," she said pointing at men with each pronoun," are staying here. You two stick to your windows and you cover that door; everyone else, we've got _seconds_ to get across the street with SSgt. Silas.

"You two," she continued speaking to the men who would stay behind. "Don't you fucking shoot at anybody in an Iraqi Police uniform unless you can see his face, in fact that goes for all of you. Thamir, the Colonel and Rashid will be taken alive, no ifs ands of buts about it. Rashid is tall, clean shaven about 180 pounds. He has light eyes. He, _especially_, better not be dead in the morning."

Kai tapped Pvt. King in his right shoulder as he joined the Indian file making its way out of the room.

"Not you," she said. "I want you on the roof, behind cover. Soon as you hear the first shot fired I want you to take out their lookout. I don't care if it takes a grenade and they get a new skylight; I want that fucker dead."

"Yes ma'am."

Pvt. Avery King didn't have to wait very long at all.

* * *

Well then, that's that.

Thy Author.


	11. Jinni

Is it true Mommy? Is this a new chapter? Yes Timmy; now shut up and keep scrubbing.

**_Salat_**: refers to the five daily ritual prayers that Muslims offer to Allah.

**_Jinni_**: In pre-Islamic Arabian mythology and in Islam they are members of the **_jinn_**, a race of creatures that can be good or bad but are thought to be invisible.

* * *

"What the fuck is this about?" SSgt. Silas yelled into Lt. Benally's ear. What he had to say about her orders and their sudden focus on one man whose existence was news to everyone but the Lieutenant as well as how much profanity he'd need to get it all out, had to be kept in check due to circumstances; the hail of bullets made by the lowest bidder now nicking hunks of concrete off the single officer barracks across the street was hardly encouragement for heart to hearts.

"You don't need to know that Sergeant!" Lt. Benally shouted back. She was half a foot shorter and a good fifty pounds of muscle off of SSgt. Silas' weight class but she matched him word for word in the tone and bark department which proved irrelevant as her words faded into the noise made when Sgt. Murphy decimated the station's door.

The lights overhead flickered and died seconds removed from the loud boom of grenade meeting generator. Dumphy's aim was getting good enough to pee with the lights off. The fuel tank feeding the generator ignited an orange fireball, making the building tremble, the windows rattle and break and night vision goggles get clipped to helmets like someone somewhere had turned on a switch. Nine men and their female counterpart split in the large intake room by the entrance and took a side each, heading in fives towards the lounge-cum-prayer room –complete with sinks low on the walls to facilitate foot washing before **_salat_**, and the stairs to the basement jail on the opposite side.

Heavily accented cries of '_Ihna askar Amriiki_' –we are American Military, and its equally useless cousin 'put down your weapons' rang through the air while rooms were cleared with systematic haste. Dumphy and Tariq were working together, laying waste to flimsy cubby doors, tying Flex-Cufs ™ tight enough to cut off circulation with just that idea in mind and kicking AKs and their magazines in opposite directions before moving on, through the greenish filter of NVGs.

Two miles away, out of range and safely tucked behind enough sandbags to rebuild New Orleans, Sgt. Glick was screaming into his radio in a rapid, high pitched tone that made him sound like a contralto castrato. He had two days left in Iraq and his sense of duty at the moment was far outweighed by the utterly terrifying thought that he might die with a little over 48 hours to go. He couldn't reach anyone in town. He had no idea what they were up against. He called in reinforcements and air support anyway.

**-X-**

The barrels of their M4s peeked into the tiny room before them flanking the steady stream of bullets coming out of it. Night vision goggles were an undeniable plus but the man they'd pinned down, if the epithet fit someone who probably didn't shave more than once a month; still managed to empty his magazine and graze Tariq's right arm before he faltered long enough to give Dumphy his chance. The Private was screaming angrily as he rammed the butt of his rifle into the teen's face and he was still yelling when he finished securing the plastic cuffs and disabling the AK. They joined Privates Chang and O'Hare and Sgt. Murphy in the equally reactive prayer room where the situation was definitely hairier, NVGs or not.

Rashid, in his usurped office, was beginning to accept that he had made a big mistake. His mind was racing as he struggled to retrieve his computer, still hidden in the concave portion of Colonel Ghazi's desk. It was clear it'd been too easy to plan his trip into Iraq and the subsequent coup de grâce he hoped would streamline the transit of Afghani heroin into Jordan and from there to any number of ports in the thirsty West.

He kicked the computer when he realized its hard drive was gone. He knew better than to believe the Americans were as stupid as he painted them for the benefit of the more ignorant followers of his hole-ridden dogma and even though the information was heavily encrypted, the man who'd devised all his safety measures –before he put a bullet through his head, had gone to the same elite school in southern California as any of an endless number of men and women in the American's employ who'd love a crack at his hard drive if for no other reason than a chance to defeat its code.

Who knew about his computer? Who knew that he was coming? Who was it that was keeping such great tabs on his progress that he wasn't able to notice any mistakes until Asad's lifeless arm had tumbled out from behind Colonel Ghazi's desk? He had an idea, a name that popped into his head but left just as quickly, shaken by the resonant rat tat tat that seemed to wax and wane in half minute gusts. Besides, no one could possibly survive such obscene amounts of C4 in a trunk. Rashid patted the bulletproof vest weighing him down and got down on all fours to dash through the hallway.

If he wasn't going to be murdered on national television, Rashid needed the Minister of the Interior alive and kicking for the show to go on and he was hoping that the motley crew of worshippers who moonlighted as his own personal army of mujahedeen back in the opposite wing, held down the fort long enough for them to make it out to the patio and through the alley to the far more expensive but proportionately more able soldiers he had had the presence of mind to position two buildings over just in case. If only they kept shooting long enough, all was not yet lost.

A boot landing squarely on the spot between his ass and his balls interrupted his train of thought. The moment was painful and anticlimactic and his fall undignified. His AK poked him as he fell and tried, uselessly, to reach through his clothes and the groin protector in his body armor to cradle the pain. That he would be brought down quite literally because there was no such animal as a bulletproof diaper was just too much.

Even through the pain Rashid couldn't understand how he had not seen his attacker in the hallway despite having looked both ways but _through_ the pain he didn't think that Lieutenant. Benally had been in the office with him, simply biding her time until the right moment presented itself. She brought Rashid's arms close together and tied them at the wrists then hooked two sets of cuffs together to restrain his feet. She knelt down and straddled his back, caressed his hair and grabbed a handful of the thick curls.

"The Pakis have a giant hard-on for you baby. Do you think it'll fit?" She asked softly, in a voice too sweet to fit the question being asked.

Two bones in Rashid's face cracked when she slammed his head back down against the irregular body of the rifle instead of the floor. Lt. Benally listened intently trying to decide what was happening in the opposite end of the building and used her M16 for balance to get back on her feet. She didn't hear Rashid's faint voice.

"Marie? _Est il vous_?" It asked in French.

**-X-**

The decision to head for the holding cells where SSgt. Silas had gone to secure Thamir and the missing Colonel was made quickly. The good of the platoon, even if they were a capable, likable bunch, was the last thing on Lt. Benally's mind. She rolled Rashid back into Ghazi's office and cut enough fabric off his long robe to make it impossible for him to spit out the gag if he were conscious and able to try. She peeked out before exiting back into the hallway and ran past the vulnerable middle as if no one was trying to shoot around corners from the opposite side.

In the basement, the underground circus was in full swing. Sans Colonel Hassan Ghazi.

The reporter had shed his camera, choosing instead to live to buy a new one when he made it back to Qatar and Thamir had done the same, knowing he'd have a better chance of being taken alive if he was unarmed, taking cover in the cell closest to the wall. Vents that circulated rank hot air from the basement to the patio and back allowed enough brightness to filter into the room for the NVGs to work and the holy grail of Bina looked particularly pathetic being guarded by a gangly sixteen year old kid praying effusively. His speech was all monotonous recitation of the same three phrases. Get out. God is great. Leave us be. Get out. God is great. Leave us be. Rinse and repeat.

"_Put down that grenade Sadik_." Lt. Benally said in the same soft, lovely tone she'd used a minute earlier with Rashid. Sadik stopped mid sentence when he heard his name. Five heads, including the incredulous ones belonging to SSgt. Silas and Pvt. Williams turned towards source and recognized the lieutenant. "_Your sister needs you darling_."

"_Kadija is safe_," he muttered as if remembering that he should respond. "_I will be given a martyr's welcome in paradise_."

"_You are the only one she has left Sadik_. _She's just a little girl_."

"_Don't come any closer_," he yelled when Kai took several steps towards him. "_You are an evil **jinni**. Allah sent you again just to test my faith_."

"_You know that's not true Sadik. I'm a sinner just like you_," she said setting her weapon on the floor before taking two more steps into his domain.

"_I will be given a martyr's welcome in paradise_._ I will be given a martyr's welcome in paradise_._ I will be given a martyr's welcome in paradise_."

"_Are you sure_?"

"_Yes_," Sadik said sobbing. "_The least reward for the people of Heaven is 80_,_000 servants and 72 wives_,_ over which stands a dome of pearls_,_ aquamarine and ruby_. _For the righteous_,_ there will be a paradise_;_ gardens and grape yards_;_ and young full-breasted maidens of equal age_;_ and a full cup of wine_. _Wine delicious to those who drink it will neither dull their senses nor will they become drunk_."

"_Are you sure_?" Kai asked getting even closer.

He repeated the memorized perks of martyrdom, in the same order, at the same pace looking so intently at Lt. Benally, so close so their outstretched hands might touch, that he didn't notice the reporter for Al-Jazeera or the Minister of the Interior creeping along each open cell with M4s trained on them, towards the stairwell where the Americans were gathered.

"_Are you sure_?"

"_Yes_," he yelled. His voice was full of anger and despair but he stuttered when he tried to remember the perks.

"_Are you sure?_" Kai asked caressing his face with the back of her hand. Sadik nodded his response this time; a clear, undeniable no.

He pulled the pin and released the spoon.

* * *

Since I don't know Arabic you need to pretend italics and Arabic are one and the same and since I sure as hell don't know how to say anything in French that one should repeat in polite company, if _est il vous_ doesn't mean _is it you_ as Altavista Babel Fish Translation led me to believe then by all means let me know.

Thy Author & Ze Editor.

PS: I might actually finish this some time this decade. I actually have a clear end in sight.


	12. Buy Two Get One Free

So I drive The Niece to most of her extra-curricular stuff (I am perfectly aware this is because my somewhat-pimped out Lincoln is way cooler than her mom's minivan plus I play way better music) and today she was singing along to my System of a Down CD, Jet Pilot, I believe. I was sooo proud. I thought I'd lost her to Kelly Clarkson and The Pussycat Dolls. I am so taking that kid to Ozzfest.

But anyway this is about Magic Stick so here you go. Another chapter and it took me less than a month to churn it out!

* * *

"_The M67 fragmentation hand grenade has a 3 to 5 second fuse that ignites explosives packed inside a round body. Shrapnel is provided by the grenade casing. It produces a casualty radius of 49.2 feet, with a fatality radius of 16.4 feet. To arm the device, pull the pin; to ignite the fuse, release the spoon_."

As he recalled them; Pvt. Williams hoped with every ounce of his being that his ability to recite grenade facts meant he wasn't going to die. His life was supposed to flash before his eyes and it didn't; not that there was much he was hoping to revisit before going to great big toilet in the sky. He saw Sadik pull the pin and raise his arm only to fall almost immediately as fifteen bullets from the Lieutenant's sidearm pierced his body preemptively, before he had a chance to throw.

He was the closest possible casualty after Lt. Benally and the last to join the dissonant chorus of cries to take cover before something he'd later only describe as the vacuum cleaner from hell, pulled him from every side. His head, when Lt. Benally plowed him, pushing him into the nearest open cell, felt as if it would implode.

She took the brunt of the raining chunks of wall and ceiling, squirming every time the falling debris made her helmet feel like the episode of Tom and Jerry where the cat got his head stuck in a bucket and the mouse beat on it with a stick. It was a while until Williams began stirring under her. She saw his hand reaching for her neck then feeling around for a pulse and got off him. William raised his head and rolled on his side, crying out something blasphemous when the bulk of his weight rested on his right side. Of all the ways to earn a Purple Heart, Pvt. Maurice Williams from Compton, CA would get his by getting stuck in the ass with rebar.

"Are you okay ma'am?" He yelled, overcompensating for his inability to hear his own voice through the ringing in his ears. Lt. Benally struggled to catch enough breath to form an answer that went unheard.

"Smashing."

Kai tried to sit up and didn't make it past failed attempt. She fell back down, wiped her bloody nose with the sleeve of her blouse and pushed the release tab in her helmet's chin strap as SSgt. Silas began a verbal headcount somewhere to her left. Dumphy and Nassiri followed up with clockwise rounds of the rubble. It was the latter who helped Pvt. Williams to his feet and hovered above her with his good hand outstretched. He had to steady himself to pull the Lieutenant upright when she didn't meet his effort halfway. She clutched her right side.

"Are you okay ma'am?" Nassiri asked echoing Williams' earlier concern.

"Find Colonel Ghazi," Kai ordered foregoing effusive thank yous or attempts to find out how anyone else had fared. "Rashid is in his office. Keep him gagged and bagged and away from that goddamned reporter."

"Captain Baron's here and we got the Colonel ma'am," Dumphy volunteered, at least slightly annoyed that the first thing out of the Lieutenant's mouth had been more orders. "Sgt. Glick called in the cavalry. Town's ours now."

–**X–**

Bina was crawling with soldiers when Lt. Benally et alia emerged from the newly remodeled underground level with their bounty in tow, game over, eighteen to assorted nicks and scrapes. Pvt. Williams was already favoring his left leg when he zeroed in on the red cross painted on the side of a Humvee and the medic working by yellow floodlights, stitching up a blindfolded, restrained detainee.

They moved through what had to be at least a hundred blindfolded men seated in neat rows in the middle of the street with their hands behind their backs and their identification cards if they had any, in front of them. Two privates were flanking a third soldier at a random spot between rows as he numbered foreheads with a black felt tip marker and jotted down the numbers in a clipboard next to each name.

Johanna Gilchrist, news correspondent non-extraordinaire was busy picking on the Sergeant in charge of the tagging efforts; spitting questions faster than the human brain could possibly comprehend let alone respond. She had tried her luck with Captain Baron earlier only to find him entangled in an awkward radio exchange trying to explain why an entire company had been mobilized to backup soldiers on an assignment that called for removed observation of a town from a little under two miles away.

"Sergeant Broadus it seems unlikely that all these men are enemy combatants. How were they apprehended? Why are the troops keeping them together? What efforts are being made to offset the risk of wrong imprisonment? Will Coalition forces undertake retaliative measures against police Colonel Hassan Ghazi for his refusal to turn over the former Minister of the Interior?

"Tell me Sergeant, what do you think about this raid? Do you think it will affect the timetable for Coalition forces to pull out of Iraq?"

Sergeant Broadus wasn't paying attention. He had picked a spot on the wall and continued to stare at it until Johanna's voice melted into an insect-like buzzing he could ignore much like his wife's constant reminders that the lawn needed to be mowed. Eventually, Johanna Gilchrist' one sided interview fizzled out, not because she was about to give up her questioning or stop her attempts to report, but because she recognized Al-Jazeera's Ahmad Chalabi bound and bagged in his press jacket followed by two men who seemed promising enough to brave their heavily armed entourage.

At least one of those, Johanna figured, had to be the former Minister of the Interior. Out-scooping the competition carried a big cash bonus with SCN Networks.

She slipped a fresh tape into the properly labeled slot in her camera and trained her lens on the stragglers. It had been a while since she had a chance to revive her mistreatment of the press angle for her ten viewers at home but Ahmad Chalabi's hunkering stance was too good to pass up. She closed in on the highest ranking body in the stack, Lt. Benally, without noticing their shared peeing handicap.

"Lieutenant what will happen to Husam Thamir Ibrahim al-Sadun now that he is back in US custody? Do you think this episode will affect his overall treatment while he is detained?" Johanna walked backwards with the camera on her shoulder, counting to six in her head to give her victims enough time to respond. Not a creature dared stir, not even Dumphy with his predilection for an ear to enthuse.

"Come on Lieutenant," she tried again. A medic covered the lens of Johanna's camera with his hand when she kept filming within the boundaries of the triage area. The private beside him was a wordless, gesture-free version of the same unwelcoming message with his hefty frame blocking her access to the medic working on Tariq and William's scrapes and promising to do the same for her target as soon as she took two more steps. Something inside Johanna clicked as even more soldiers escorted away the trio of high profile detainees. It smelled very distinctly of whiny determination.

"I have full access to all the areas and operations of this company Lieutenant. You have been ordered by your commanding officer to cooperate in all possible ways with all journalists covering in country events and this is _not_ cooperation."

Lt. Kai Benally and Johanna Gilchrist found each other eye to eye with very little space between their faces. The decidedly female voice that spoke to Johanna in a deadpan, whisper chilled her blood.

"You live at 151 North Gower Street in London, don't you? You didn't tell the landlord about your cat before moving in, started you off on the wrong foot." Johanna nodded up and down and side to side, paling considerably in the yellowish light. "Perhaps you can reconcile your duty to report with your need to remain a Brit in good standing? Her Majesty's Revenue takes tax evasion _very_ seriously when it's strapped for cash."

Johanna licked her lips with a tongue so dry it could have rivaled her cat's for texture. She swallowed in vain before nodding her understanding. She clicked off the 'record' button and tried to step away.

"I'd appreciate it if you would place the two tapes in your pockets inside the camera bag you'll be handing over to Pvt. Dumphy as a show of good faith," Kai said loudly for the benefit of the medics and the patients and especially Dumphy who escorted Johanna in her very brief walk of shame.

Kai wanted nothing more than a clean toilet where she might be able to pee in relative privacy but the simple wish got further away in the mammoth radio headed her way on the camouflaged back of someone who could probably think of better ways to spend his night than having his sleep interrupted to arrive long after his presence was needed. Captain Baron was visible in the distance as the radio's previous victim, tired, annoyed and angry and Sgt. Glick close behind him basking in the afterglow of career suicide at the tender age of 33.

She barely had time to identify herself when Col. Ryan's unmistakable voice boomed. Sixty-eight percent of what he relayed through a filter of distance and static would be unprintable in family papers worldwide. For the second round, he toned the content down.

"Are you in-fucking-sane Lieutenant?" The radio's handset hollered. She could only hear a faint whisper even though the Colonel was speaking loud enough to rouse the dead. "Are you independently wealthy L T 'cause I don't see any other way you can pick up the tab for this cluster fuck!"

There was no answer on the Kai's side. She let the Colonel vent for a full minute until second by second his tone mellowed progressively and his pace slowed down.

"I understand you collared me a Christmas gift L T. Is that right?"

"Yes sir; buy two get one free sale."

"Well hell's bells then I better schedule a pick-up."

Lt. Benally didn't hear Colonel Ryan sing off on his end. She dropped the handset in her grip and blinked twice as if trying to focus on something she couldn't quite see.

"Are you okay ma'am?" Spc. Fallis asked jumping to his feet, noticing one of her pupils was as wide as a plate.

"I can't breathe," she said. "Do you have two heads?" Kai dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes without waiting for an answer.

The medic snapped into action and began removing the Lieutenant's weapons on the spot where she fell. He was through to the Velcro tabs on the body armor when she began to retch. A second medic turned Lt. Benally on her side and stepped out of range of the reborn stomach goo then helped Fallis look for injuries in a fairly spotless uniform whose only trace of blood was on the sleeves where she's wiped her nose.

"I hope she doesn't die," Pvt. Williams whispered mostly to himself.

"That would be three dead Lieutenants man. I think we are bad luck," Tariq replied.

"Shut up both of you." That was SSgt. Silas alright. He'd been made bitchier than usual by a flying brick that had turned a good half of his chest into a rainbow of red and ever more darkening purples.

Spc. Fallis began unbuttoning Lt. Benally's uniform blouse, pissed for not being able to find what was wrong. He held the uniform up against the light; still unable to see anything that could resemble an entrance would or clue him to why the other medic had begun to bag a woman who had no airway constrictions. He pulled her pants down and nearly yelled 'eureka' when he spotted the quarter sized hole that matched the half moon chunk missing from her belt. He put on a fresh pair of blue latex gloves and wiggled his finger in the open wound, hitting bone when his index finger was two knuckles in.

"There's no blood."

"If the shrapnel's hot enough going in, it cauterizes the entrance wound," Fallis replied cutting the seams of Kai's brown undershirt, ripping the fabric to get a better look of the shrapnel's possible path. He applied pressure on her hips as blood began to seep once again. His attention wavered to the blood pooled just under her skin until it faded away two inches below her right breast sans an exit wound.

"Shit. Shit. Shit." He muttered. "She's gonna have to be Medevaced right now."

He took over his partner's efforts pumping the bag attached to the valve mask over Lt. Benally's nose and mouth and listened intently while the other medic called in the evacuation and described the situation to the radio operator on the other side. He saw three soldiers; SSgt. Silas included, begin to clear a landing zone and looked back to Lieutenant Benally.

This time, he noticed the tell-tale signs of healed but extensive skin grafts over most of her torso and extending down her left thigh. He traced the largest square of transplanted skin before he covered her back up, first with the uniform and then with a wool blanket. Six minutes later, amidst the shuffle of the Medevac taking away the third Lieutenant to end up at least unwell after serving with Bravo company, the older helicopter and the soldiers who shepherded Colonel Ghazi, Rashid Sabawi and Husam Thamir Ibrahim 'Too Many Names' al-Sadun into it, went largely unnoticed.

The green and white markings on the fuselage of the fighter jets that escorted the helicopter out of Iraqi air space and later the same night over the Persian Gulf, as well as the matching patches on the airmen's flight suits would have raised more than a few eyebrows if anyone had been looking when they joined the chopper mid-flight.

* * *

And so the chapter came to an end.

Thy Author and Ze Editor


	13. A Very Ugly Rock

**_Shari'a_**: is the Arabic word for Islamic law. It governs the public and private lives of those living within an Islamic state.

On a related sidenote, while I am aware that there are currently no direct flight linking Baghdad International Airport in Iraq and London's Heathrow via Iraqi Airways, I have chosen to ignore this and say there are because, well… I can.

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It wasn't quite daybreak and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep at a time for the past two days but Silas still knew, as he knocked on Jamila's door without the usual circuitousness that got him there when he could get away, that he was once again being an idiot. He switched his helmet from under one arm to the other and leaned his forehead on the cold concrete of her second floor porch wall then fell asleep; really truly, asleep for twenty seconds until she opened the door. Jamila mumbled her welcome through a mouthful of toothpaste and gave him a smile topped with the handle of a red, plastic toothbrush. She looked at both sides of the alley between her building and the next, wrapped her hand around his wrist and pulled him inside.

She disappeared into the bedroom and came back sans toothpaste or the bottom half of her prayer outfit, wrapped in a silky, green robe. Silas had used the time alone to catalogue her living room or more to the point, the missing additions that had seemed so important less than a week earlier. He had changed before coming, or rather traded clothes with someone who stank a little less than he did after two days of being able to clean up with nothing wetter than baby wipes. His aura was sweaty socks and baby powder all rolled into one.

"Are you okay? I didn't think I would see you this soon."

"I've just… missed you. A lot." Silas took her face in his hands, reminding himself that care, like water, had to be sipped after long periods of going without. Jamila threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, balanced on the very tip of her toes. He winced, shying away from the well meaning but nonetheless painful gesture.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" She began yanking Velcro and undoing buttons before he could think of way to reply that might prepare her for the ugly bruise under his shirt.

"It's not as bad as he looks," he said sheepishly.

**-X-**

Johanna Gilchrist was chain smoking on her issued cot in the trailer she shared with the BBC correspondent who had replaced her, enjoying being back to the familiar pleasure den in Camp Marez reserved for civilian contractors filling army jobs that couldn't be hired out to third country nationals, and of course the press. Her camera bag had been returned without tapes or an explanation, by a man even more pissed off, if that was even possible, than any of the others she had rubbed elbows with since her return from Bina.

Just as the interrogation room where she had been held for eight hours began to close in on her, a man in khaki work pants, the rigueur thigh holster and black body armor over an olive long-sleeved shirt, had half pushed her, half guided to the open back doors of a black, armored, civilian use Humvee parked in a windowless room. She had bent her head to be crowned with the hood she'd worn after the last transfer, reasoning that that these angry, nameless people she was sure weren't soldier although they spoke perfect English wouldn't bother with hoods or returned equipment if they had more macabre intentions in store.

A black sheet of Plexiglas between the driver and his cargo and the heavily tinted windows in the back sides and doors had blocked out all the light and scenery while an impossibly loud selection of Mariachi tunes had taken care of any ambient noise that could have filtered in. These measures were especially necessary because unbeknown to Johanna, who at the moment could have cared less, the Humvee's driver did little more than drive around Camp Marez making sharp turns at the motor pool for twenty minutes to give the soldiers who had returned Johanna to her trailer time to finish their dinner.

She counted the cash she had stashed throughout her side of the room for the third time. It was of littler solace each time she took stock but in the end, the bill rolls between her camera equipment and the lumpy filling in her mattress usually brought a smile to Johanna's face. Her bible had runneth over with Grants and Benjamins as had her socks. The best she could say of her employer was the cash only payment policy that Her Majesty's Revenue didn't have to find out about. Everything else about Iraq sucked except the tax free $89,000 that would support her for a year of fun in London or three if she lived within more modest means.

Dana Stokes barged in on the relative peace within the trailer, letting in the never ending construction noises from the camp's continuous expansion. Her tan face was blotchy from running the length of trailer row after trailer row trying to locate the one her key would open amidst the identical, maddening maze. Dana rifled through a camera bag not unlike Johanna's and fished out her press jacket and a spare battery pack. She stuffed a small notebook in the back pocket of her jeans, checked the tape in a backup recorder and finally noticed Johanna sitting sullenly on her bed.

"What are you doing? There's a press conference about that raid in Bina in less than two minutes. My source told me they picked up some high profiles and leveled the place. Come on!"

"I don't care. It's not worth it. A raid is not a story, there's nothing to cover!"

"Don't you get it Grumps? The shit's really gonna hit the fan. I shouldn't be telling you this but my guy in intake says they can't find that police Colonel anywhere."

**-X-**

Silas tried to count the calls to prayer in his head, to guess an accurate enough time range without having to search for his watch, wherever it had landed when Jamila took it off his wrist and flung it across the room in response to its incessant beeping. He pegged the number at two because it was the number of times she's stirred beside him and disappeared for several minutes. Her hair had been wet when she came back the second time, having been gone longer.

Chris went to Tariq with the questions on culture and Islam he didn't dare Google on the public terminals in the communications tent, to learn the difference between the partial cleaning called **_wudu_** and the more thorough **_ghusl_** or that the latter was needed to pray after having sex. Jamila's hair was damp when he stretched his hand to touch her and he decided it had to be somewhere around two.

The air coming in through the open bedroom window was too cold; _too_ cold especially for a country where many a bored soldier had succeeded at frying eggs on the hood of cars parked in the shade. Coldness hugged him when Jamila pulled the frayed chenille bedspread down to his ankles and braced her knees on either side of his hips but it took the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire to pry his eyes open. They listened for a minute, each one trying to answer their own set of questions.

They weren't American bullets. They sounded more like the work of a couple of Kalashnikovs. The cheering that followed was fainter; like something for a wedding or a funeral but not an ambush and aside from the questionable rationale of emptying a magazine into the air, nothing much would probably go wrong.

"So you'll wake-up for bullets but not for me?" She asked huskily, bending forward to kiss him, careful to hover just above his purple CD sized bruise on Silas' chest. "Lazy bones."

"Take pity on a hungry man and feed him," he managed at the breathing break when her mouth left his lips long enough for him to get in a full sentence, dreaming of the warm flat bread and loose meat Jamila fed him on his previous visit; meat that he still didn't know had once belonged to her dead goat. Rest in peace Lexus the Goat.

"There's no electricity remember? I have to cook downstairs, unless you want one of those plastic bricks you silly Americans keep trying to unload on us."

"Why do you think it's silly to try to help?" He asked holding her back with his hands on her waist, complete with eye contact and earnest interest, tired and hungry and achy enough to set aside the fact that he had a beautiful, naked woman on top of him and a real mattress underneath. Jamila dismounted.

"Because we'll never hear the end of American generosity towards the grimy, backwards Iraqis and even though it has cost the Army hundreds of thousands of dollars to distribute food and water this past month, you might as well be setting the money on fire in Daglesh Square for all the good it is going to do in the long run."

"What are we supposed to do then? Teach all the men to fish?"

"We're tugging at opposite ends of the rope Confucius. Let's just let it be?" She pulled the covers over her head.

"I'm an Army of One remember?" Chris said folding back the blanket as she rolled her eyes. He chuckled amused and tucked an arm behind his head. "I want to know what you think about me." He hooked the fingers of his left hand through her right. Jamila scooted closer until she was lying side by side with him.

"I think you are pig-headed, passionate and very, very smart. You share a lot of that with your Army or maybe it is the other way around and being a soldier has made you more like the Army but you can't defend the logistics of something like paying a foreign company _fifty_ million dollars to rebuild the Diyala Bridge when the same could be accomplished for a tiny fraction of only _one_ million if the very same work were to be completed by my countrymen." She loosened her hold of his hand, just in case, but he didn't pull away.

**-X-**

There should have been harp music coming out of the speakers high up on the walls of the first class waiting lounge at the Baghdad International Airport. Johanna Gilchrist watched enraptured while the proper measures of gin, vodka and vermouth dripped into the stainless steel tumbler her bartender had settled in front of her to forge a perfect James Bond martini. The man's attention to detail was utmost, as if the drink's projected lifespan was longer than twelve seconds and he was creating on a work of art.

She had a one way ticket to London in her pocket and all her cash stashed alongside the tapes and notebooks in her carry on bag, having left everything else in her trailer for the BBC's own Dana Stokes to use or give away to her fellow newsies. Johanna thought she was particularly fed up of the tiny bathroom stalls in Camp Marez and the poor water pressure in the showers but as she knocked back her dry martini, she realized she was mostly just fed up of bad, expensive booze.

As the bitter burn of the drink warmed her throat on the way down, she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. By the time she boarded, with the selfless help of the two stewardesses it took to drag her to her seat and stuff her carry-on in the overhead compartment next to her equally sloshed seatmate's, the heat of Iraq, the lack of a worthy story except perhaps the one she'd been easily and successfully threatened out of covering only hours earlier and all the time she had spent culling news briefs from the endless feet of tape in her possession was nothing but a dull blur.

**-X-**

They were making out in the dusky darkness to a soundtrack of poppy Egyptian music and the lazy hum of a motor pumping water from the underground cisterns to the rooftop tanks, gearing up for something of a farewell fuck when the music and the droning both stopped. For the second time that same day, the streetlights died too. Their ability to see each other didn't change, it'd been pretty dark under the covers but the mood was ruined nonetheless. Jamila kicked off the bedspread. She sat up and cursed and Silas knew from her inflection that whoever was in charge of electric repairs had better have plenty of good karma saved up if he planned to leave his house in the future without every bird in creation shitting on his head.

Chris reached for his pants on the floor and the travel-size flashlight in one of its pockets. He held it between his teeth and unscrewed the sooty shade of one of the kerosene lamps on the nightstand, muttering when the lighter in his free hand failed to work long enough to get the wick lit. He shone the light into the drawer looking for a spare.

Jamila brushed his hand aside, edged the drawer closed and lit the lamp, hovering unsure while he decided what to do next. Chris pulled the drawer by its loose hardware, scanned the bare contents and zeroed in on two passports he would have missed without her uneasy reaction. _The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan_, _United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland_. He sank to the low mattress and flipped through the Jordanian passport first. It was older and already filled out with all the necessary stamps and a recent photo. Something about the British passport was off but it was a good enough rendition that in the poor light he couldn't tell what it was.

"I thought the furnishings looked a little spare earlier. Going somewhere?" Jamila's voice wavered weakly before she gave up trying to form the words she needed to lie.

"You'll never get through airport security on these. The new Jordanian passport is green."

"I know. It costs more."

"Are you seriously planning to cross the border?" She sat down beside him and replied silently, with a slight nod of her head. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"I've done it before. I know the man taking me across."

"Where did you get a British passport?"

"My sister bought it from a soldier in Basra." Everything he knew he should be saying and doing, his duty to police, to the law, it didn't register. He couldn't tear his gaze from the passport photos, from eyes too old to be in her 22 year old face.

"You can't do this."

"I can't stay either," she whispered with her mouth bent in a frown. It wasn't a good enough explanation. "I am _tired_ Sergeant. **_Shari'a_** is the backbone of the new constitution. Iraq gets closer to becoming an Islamic state every day; I'm not sticking around for when they slap a Kalashnikov on the flag."

"Then leave legally Jamila. Go to Jordan or Lebanon… Jesus, I don't know. Sell that diamond. There are plenty of places where you don't need a fake passport if you have money."

"Don't you think I've tried? Lloyd's of London paid off an insurance claim on the Lesotho in July," she said in a deadpan tone. "I couldn't give it away if I tried and it's only worth real money if I sell it whole. I have pocket change and an ugly rock."

"The Jordanian border with Iraq is closed. The only people going through are smugglers and if you get stopped you'll be going to prison; an American run prison. You can't bribe your way out of those." She didn't say anything. The whole conversation was preposterous, from the content itself to the fact that it was even happening, that he was sitting there trying to convince her not to do something that stupid.

"It's a risk I'll have to take."

"This is not a game Jamila. I don't know what happened to you since Tuesday but you need to snap out of it baby."

"You chose this life Sergeant. You have training and body armor and if you last the year, you can go home but this is it for me and I did _not_ sign up to be An Army of One."

Chris hated himself for asking, about as much as he feared a lot of the possible answers but he asked anyway because it the question nagged him every time he passed Lt. Hunter's memorial with its leering photo warped with urine inside the frame.

"How did you choose me? How did you decide to keep _my_ uniform and not Dim's or Tariq's? Why didn't you pick someone else in the squad Jamila?" He whispered. She doubled the space between them on the edge of the bed.

"Why?" He asked again, louder and angrier in full blown Sgt. Scream mode that startled her.

"You weren't married," she said to the curtain in front of her like it had been the one to ask. "That first night, in the study, you almost shook your head when Mustafa bragged to your men that he bought me. I couldn't read the Iraqi boy," she added referring to Tariq, "and the other two were too far away. I knew you were the safest bet."

"You picked a good horse baby." Silas set the passports aside and began dressing. Boxers, undershirt, pants, all piled together at his feet in the order they'd come off. Jamila reached out in the darkness no more than halfway before Chris arched his body away from her. The bedsprings creaked beneath him.

"Please…"

"I would have helped you anyway," Silas interrupted. Jamila shrugged into her robe like it was a shield.

"I put my life in your hands every time you come here and my neighbors see you but I still ask Allah that He keep you safe so that I might see you again. I'm sorry it is not enough." Jamila picked up the bedside lamp and reached for the passports on the hill the weight of their bodies made on the old mattress. His hand got to them first.

"I can't let you do this," he said flipping open the passports, tearing the pages from their sewn spines. Jamila stared dumbly as the heavy paper surrendered to the pressure of Silas' fingers. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Why do you even care?" She asked. Chris looked at the confetti at his feet and the switch in his brain that modeled concepts into edited speech didn't click.

"Because I love you," he replied.

**

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And that concludes our "grownups emote" section of the program. Tip your waiters and join us next week for a reenactment of Operation Market Garden.

Thy Author.


	14. Three Letter Outfit

Here it is! Well you know part I of a two part ending. Shout it from the rooftops in your ratty underwear! Thank you, Lone Reader for braving it to the end.

**_Affaire de Coeur_**: As per my handy French to English dictionary this means love affair but please keep in mind I don't know enough French to survive an hour in Quebec.

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It wasn't until a week after Bina and Jamila that Silas had been able to hitch a ride back to the FOB in a Chinook returning a broken Howitzer to whatever entity at Marez fixed them before the shells started coming out of the wrong end. He had joined the field trip with the pretense of visiting the injured two-fifths of his squad being held for observation at the field hospital but this was hardly the only item he planned to check off his list at the base nor the reason he had wasted four precious hours of his free day waiting for the visiting helicopter to unload its supplies and pick up the unruly cannon to get back again.

First Lieutenant Kai Benally was item number one on the list. He'd certainly visit Pvt. Williams and Pfc. Nassiri at their respective hospital beds and hit the post-exchange for the more exotic luxuries unavailable at the company store –it only seemed to specialize in scrunchies, sports bras and size seven gym socks, but those were minor errands in the grander scheme of things. Mitchell and Del Rio were seated beside him on the helicopter leaving Dumphy alongside Baron in front. The day was dwindling fast when his boots first touched Marez so he was glad to see Baron disappear in the general direction of the administrative maze and Dumphy offer to escort the women to the store.

Silas headed the exact opposite way, towards the curly letters on a nylon banner in the food court. He unfolded a twenty on the Cinnabon counter and ordered the sweetest looking drink on the menu. The clerk sighed, faced with the unexpected intrusion and pushed his body forward to dislodge the chair he'd balanced on the back wall. SSgt. Silas pointed at a tray of trademarked flavored dough and held up two fingers until the correct number of cinnamon buns were dropped into cardboard containers with a thud.

"Coffee," he said dryly before his order was added up.

The clerk poured the hot, stale drink into a Styrofoam cup and slid it to the edge of the counter. Satisfied that no one had spit on his food, at least that he could see, Silas dropped some of his change into the tip jar and turned around balancing a drink and a cinnamon bun in each hand. He had finished almost half of his coffee before walking in the hospital lobby, trying to offset the chill that set in his bones despite the short walk. It was cold now in Mosul, day and night, with no nice sunny intervals in between.

The injured soldier manning the sign-in sheet smiled at the sight of the whipped cream crown on the cup in the staff sergeant's right hand. Silas passed off the drink and watched the man wave him in without the usual interrogation, down the hall to the rare luxury of a private room. He peeked at the name of the chart on the door to makes sure he was in the right place and pushed the door open when it matched what he was expecting to see.

The voice that welcomed him was soft and paused, like Lt. Benally had borrowed lots of sugar and spice from someone down the hall.

"You really know how to treat a girl Staff," Lt. Benally said in way of a greeting, putting her hand out as the smell of cinnamon and cream cheese frosting filled the room.

Silas knew better than to offer to help when Lt. Benally had to climb a stepping stool to get back on the bed, even though the overall effect was reminiscent of a turtle trying to relax on a lounge chair. His good sense wasn't boundless, however and his eyes got stuck. Kai was wearing her hospital gown pushed down about the waist like a skirt. He gazed at the scars on her chest and shoulders where the skin was patterned as if square strips of fish scales had been arranged to cover the unmatched spots. Silas didn't know these were donor sites for the discolored skin grafts that peeked shyly along her lower body as she moved to cover up with an itchy wool blanket. He realized the Lieutenant was following his eyes and that his mother would have swatted the crown of his head if she was alive to witness his indiscretion.

"What's the forecast?" He asked opening a folding chair he placed between her bed and door, to be able to hear anyone walking down the hall and also get in their way if they tried to come in. She reached for a black piece of unidentified metal, not quite the size of a quarter and tossed it in his general direction. Silas caught it in the air.

"I'll need a plastic rib if the screws don't work but I'm hoping for something that'll keep the Homeland Security guys guessing when I go through the metal detectors."

"Going home then?"

"Yup. No more blazing through the ranks for this girl."

"That shouldn't be problem," he said uncapping his coffee, "for someone who was never a soldier to begin with, wouldn't you say?" Lt. Benally closed her eyes. Her reply was dry and straight faced.

"I am not at liberty to confirm or deny your speculations Sergeant." The line of her lips broke into a playful smile. "But I'm very glad you're not an idiot."

"Flattery won't let you off the hook ma'am. I'll still ask you what the fuck this is about when you are through."

"Oh be nice." She squeezed the IV bag hanging beside her bed. "I'm on a 4 milligram an hour morphine drip Sergeant; if you ask me pretty I might just tell you who _really_ killed Kennedy."

"Cut the shit," he said gruffly. "The men and women of my platoon are not numbers on a piece of paper. They risked their lives for whatever the fuck you were trying to get out of Bina thinking they were following legitimate orders. I'm not leaving until I know what mighty and well connected three letter outfit you work for that it can undo the last six months' of this Army's work and flatten a goddamn town to get at one man." The silence that ensued grew heavy as Kai unfurled the cinnamon bun on her lap, ignoring his presence in the room until he began to question what he was doing himself.

"The details do not concern you, not that they'll paint you a very thorough picture anyway. Go home. You shut down a major heroin route and none of your men are dead. The operation was a success. Thank you for the pastry."

"Does Captain Baron…"

"Don't threaten wolves with a stick Sergeant," she interrupted. Silas clicked his tongue against his teeth. Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.

"I'm not an idiot remember? Information is wealth, you said so yourself. I'm just shopping around to see where I can get the most for my money."

"What makes..."

"My turn," he cut her off. He put his empty cup on the floor and rested the palms of his hands on his knees, hoping he _really_ had enough information be able to bargain with it. "The way I see it, you are cleaning house and you want the Army to take the blame."

"That's it! Couldn't sneak it past you! I woke up last week and single handedly decided to infiltrate the ranks of the United States Army as a Lieutenant First Class so I could kill Hassan Ghazi because I don't like the way he's been doing his job. I will be forever in your debt if you promise to be discreet."

"Don't patronize me."

"Don't speak without thinking and I might not be so tempted."

"Then maybe you want to explain how Ghazi makes it ten VIPs who can't finish their terms in three months? I don't think this is just about him but I'm willing to bet Lt. Colonel Lyle will want an explanation; I mean he _did_ stand in front of a roomful of reporters and his commanding officer and pretty much admitted he didn't know where the goddamned prisoner had gone."

Silas held up his finger when she opened her mouth. Kai brushed Cinnabon crumbs off her lap but for the first time, her nonchalance was a clearly calculated act.

"I know you already have a good excuse ready but it'll be a lot easier to swallow if he doesn't suspect that the girl spook made him look like an ass in front of all those TV cameras don't you think?" He continued when she didn't answer. "It'll only cost you one way airfare."

"Are you really so homesick you are willing to piss me off that much?"

"Not me; I love this shithole." Silas grinned, relieved that he'd hammered close enough to the nail to elicit a reaction. "But I have a friend," he added, wondering how to explain Jamila "who needs help getting out of Iraq." Kai nodded.

"Jamila Haddad," she said. Now it was Chris' turn to bite back his surprise. "Although for your health, I hope she's only _that_ friendly with you."

"How'd…"

"The **_Other Government Agency_** and me like to keep tags on our assets Sarge and I gotta tell you, the tapes of your little **_Affaire de Coeur_** last year made me all warm and tingly."

"Wait you mean Jamila is, she was… the house in Al-Hadith was being watched?" Kai nodded the answer to the last question: yes.

"We picked up the slack where your people left off. Her husband sought out Army intel in 2003. She didn't seek _us_ until later, after Phantom Fury," Kai added. Her voice wavered as she tried to fit her fingers into the cast to be able to scratch. "The horny little toad left her with another one of his wives in Fallujah; at the hospital, the night before the 36th captured it. Hell hath no fury like that woman pissed."

"She's already come to you for help hasn't she?" Silas asked leaning forward. He ran his fingers through the eighth of an inch fuzz in the back of his head and cradled his face on both hands.

"There's only one Get out of Jail card in the box Staff, and she gave it to her brother the moment he blew her husband's brains out. The investigation into Mustafa Al-Shahrani's death wasn't dropped by the work and grace and of the blessed virgin."

"Then she's lucky I don't need mine," Silas whispered. The door opening in slammed his chair in the middle of the backrest. Pvt. Dumphy's voice was clear as it began torrential apologies and began to back away. Williams joined the commotion, thrusting his IV pole on wheels in Dumphy's face. Even in a hospital gown, with his ass quite literally in a sling, the Comptonite managed to look imposing.

"Is there a problem girls?" SSgt. Silas asked halting the entire argument with just a show of his face.

"Just Dim being an idiot again," Maurice replied although he didn't tear his eyes from Frank. "I'm trying to say hi to the L T now that she's not gonna die and all but Dim here can't make up his mind about if he's gonna come or he's gonna go."

Silas threw the door open and waved in his squad, everyone but Pvt. King doing his laundry back at camp, and watched them pile in to gather around the hospital bed. He looked in on the five eager heads around the wan smile of the woman they knew only as their Lieutenant, amazed at how great a show she was putting on. Even her hospital gown was pulled up; covering the scars that had kept Silas mystified a minute earlier. The nurse at the end of the hall held up her right hand.

"Just five more minutes Sergeant. Major Rubin is going to start his rounds soon."

**

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Voila!

Thy Author.

**_Other Government Agency_** is the standard military/governmental euphemism for the CIA, used when the CIA's presence is an open secret, but cannot be officially confirmed.


	15. Bleeding Heart Sentimentalist

Here is part II of the end! Rooftop shouting is still a plus. Go Lone Reader Go.

**_AFRTS_**: stands for Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.

**_ISI_**: Stands for Inter-Services Intelligence and it is the largest and most powerful of the three main branches of the intelligence agency of Pakistan.

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She was wearing the uniform and playing the last dregs of the part, for the benefit of two MPs assigned to escort her to FOB Danger for punishment and evacuation. Real or not, Lieutenant Benally had gone AWOL chasing an incorrect set of orders and no one was about to let that pass without the prescribed wrist slapping and pay docking the situation necessitated. She was surveying the hustle and bustle of the base from behind her sunglasses, waiting until the soldiers manning the gates processed the arrivals an began focusing on the departures.

Incoming vehicles were always first, as a courtesy; people waiting to come in were not as safe as anyone waiting to go out. The line grew longer by six more Humvees set to replace patrols due back for a break and angrier as a seventh car cut in front of Lt. Benally's MPs in part because it was bypassing the queue and also because they covered what little sunshine the men waiting outside the vehicle had managed to find. Sergeant Mendez went from annoyance to attention in two seconds flat. Kai didn't have time to turn around to see the source of reverence before Colonel Ryan had ordered the trio to stand at ease.

"Let me see your orders," he said to Mendez. The sergeant's boots skid on the pavement complete with speeding car noises as he turned around to procure the transport documents on his clipboard inside the car. Ryan scanned the writing and pulled the papers from the plastic tab.

"Get up Lieutenant; you are coming to back to the FOB with me." The two sheets of paper disappeared crumpled into one his pockets.

"We have _direct_ orders from Lt. Col. Lyle to deliver the Lieutenant to Diamondback for transport, Sir."

"And now you have _direct_ orders from Colonel Ryan to turn over the Lieutenant and go beautify the Welfare and Recreation trailer. It's up to you whether you want to detail the Chapel lawn too." An eyebrow went up higher than the other for an effect that wasn't quite a scowl but nearly made Sgt. Mendez cower though he was slightly taller.

Lt. Benally stood up on the bed of the M998. She walked the three steps to the edge and held on to Sergeants Mendez and Hart to get down on the pavement, making a face like a kindergartener in trouble. Her cast had been replaced by tight bandaging over a thinner plaster frame and even though it provided easier access for scratching, the non-existent ease of use remained unchanged.

There was shuffling inside the Colonel's Humvee as a man in the passenger seat in front climbed on the gunner's turret and balanced himself on a leather sling-seat like a beefed up playground swing. A second uniform jumped out of the back seat and took the gunner's place by the driver. Lt. Benally slid into the vacated seat awkwardly. She put her helmet aside and adjusted the straps on the soft, bucket hat until it was secured tightly to the back of her head. She pulled the ID tags around her neck up over her hat and pooled the long beaded chain in her right hand.

"Lt. Kai Benally? I'm fucking Egyptian! Which one of you yahoos came up with my legend?" She asked at last, with a reluctant grin taking over face as she swung the little aluminum tabs onto the Colonel's side. Next to the driver, Lt. Davis raised his hand. The index finger was missing from the knit glove insert he was wearing.

"Only had 'bout ten minutes to type up your papers ma'am; including all the commendations," Davis replied. His voice was equal parts sheepish and smug. "'Sides, you didn't look like a Sheldon to me."

"Did you find our hospitality to your liking Miss Girard?" Ryan asked pocketing the single use tags for the imaginary West Point Lieutenant.

"I've peed in cleaner toilets but all in all it's not a bad gig. How did it go in Rouen?"

"Not a hitch and you were right about Jerry. He was a dead ringer for Rashid." Her face beside the Colonel didn't betray any emotion so Ryan went on. "Hassan Ghazi was delivered to your colleagues in Karachi last night; heard they can't shut him up."

"What about my most favoritest asshole ever?"

"Not as helpful as your missing chief," Ryan replied wistful, thinking of Ghazi's incurable diarrhea of the mouth. The line wrapped around red velvet ropes outside the PX flashed by the driver's side window as the Humvee drove past.

"It'll wear out," she said reassuringly, like she was reading for the part of a mattress salesman in an outlet store. For all the supposed liaising, their timing was strained. Both ends of the conversation were mentally elsewhere. Both ends of the conversation were just showing up.

"Last chance to join us," Ryan added. "I could use your help before we hand him over to the **_ISI_**." She shook her head from side to side.

"Sorry Colonel. I'm off to Germany to work on my tan."

The inside of the car fell silent for several minutes. The gunner shifted in his sling. She looked up suddenly, surprised by the very silence because they were parked in front of a landing zone with the engine turned off and that kind of peace and quiet was an endangered species in the middle of war.

"Why do you still go by Marie?" The beads on the ID tags' chain ran past his fingers like it was a rosary.

"I'm a bleeding heart sentimentalist?"

The black dot in the cloudless sky grew larger and noisier, more like a helicopter should be. Marie reached for the door handle, which Lt. Davis got from the outside. She pulled the neck of her undershirt away from her body and stuck her hand into the pocket-like space formed by the gauze stretched over her breasts. She placed a shiny plastic sleeve between the seats.

"It's encrypted ten ways from Sunday but I hear your driver has a knack for finding the back doors in that sort of thing," she added.

"Is this…"

"Consider it an early Christmas gift." She said without turning around. Colonel Ryan peered into the sleeve at the hard drive inside.

"Are you sure? You'll be in a world of shit when they come asking."

"In the fight between computer and missile, missile always wins Colonel; besides, I am a disgruntled freelancer with an axe to grind. If _they _didn't foresee the possibility that Rashid's computer would not be recovered, it's _their_ boat up Shitcreek."

"Thank you," Ryan said. The din of the helicopter rotors saturated the air and he pocketed the drive, already thinking about Karachi. The risk and expense of something as incredibly illegal and involved as snatching Rashid would only pay off if he talked.

"You know I'm a sucker for moral quagmires," Marie said smiling, once again radiating playful come hither-ness as precise as if there was an on-off switch. She thrust her hand into Ryan's space, reaching over the rucksack between the back seats. They shook twice before she pulled away.

"Lots of interesting stuff in there about Rashid's business model," she yelled turning around. "He liked to bankroll small guerrillas to babysit his heroin; people like those men who killed your wife."

She looked briefly over her shoulder then back at the landing zone straight ahead. Lt. Davis ran behind her, like the good a little escort, into the waiting helo.

**-X-**

Silas woke up startled by the blaring television set. It took him a second to recognize his surroundings for what they were; the recreation tent, 2:50 a.m. Mosul time. He had rolled onto the remote on the couch where he had nodded off an hour earlier after wandering in unable to sleep. He pressed the volume button until the man inside the box wasn't screaming anymore, thinking about the strangers he had seen in Jamila's house the day before and knowing that he could never be sure what happened to her in the end. The satellite channel was broadcasting the evening news as seen by the 4th Infantry Division in Fort Hood. Something about the handsome, bearded face flashing on the screen over a bold headline was looked familiar. He leaned closer to the TV.

_This is an **AFRTS** News Minute: Former Pakistani ambassador to France, Rashid Abdullah Sabawi has been missing from his home in Rouen for seven days. Footage culled from a traffic camera in Rue du Rosier showed three armed men dragging the ex-consul into an unmarked van in the early morning hours of November 17._

_The former ambassador made the news in October when the findings of an ongoing investigation into the 1999 bombing of the French embassy in Pakistan confirmed his involvement in the attack. During the previously unclaimed incident, a briefcase filled with Semtex detonated in an underground garage, killing eight and wounding another thirteen. The ex-consul's wife, Marie Girard and the couple's infant son were among the fatalities at the time. _

_Rashid Sabawi holds dual citizenship in France and Pakistan. A ransom demand has not yet been made. That is an **AFRTS** News Minute; I am Paul Waldrop at the news center. _

SSgt. Silas's mouth was gaping open as the screen became grainy grey and then black. He looked around the tent half wanting to tell someone about Rashid and Bina and half thankful that there was no one around to tell. The closest thing to a witness at 2:51 a.m. was Pvt. Frank 'Dim' Dumphy, peeing gleefully on Lt. Hunter's picture two tents away.

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Voila for real! You made it!

Thy Author and Ze Editor


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